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Vol. XV. 








A. happy new year to all our readers and subscribers— old 
friends and new friends — a happy new year to all ! 

With this simple, but sincere and earnest salutation, we meet 
the subscribers to " The World of Fashion," on the first day of 
the new year, with the first number of a New Volume, which, 
as we intend that it shall reflect the spirit and character of the 
year, will as much surpass its predecessors, as the year will 
surpass in briUiancy and happiness all that have gone before it. 
A New Court is established : the Queen Victoria's reign pro- 
mises to be more glorious than that of auy sovereign who has 
ever filled the English throne : new energies, new pleasures, 
new enjoyments will be called forth. Fashion wiU again have 
her myriad votaries, and the circles of high life, pervaded by a 
new and lively spirit, will present a striking contrast to the duU 
scenes of former times. Determined as are the conductors of 
this publication to make it perfectly a Magazine of the 
Court ; and being encouraged and supported by personages of 
the highest distinction, they cannot let the present opportunity 
pass without calling attention to the peculiar attractions of this 
work, while at the same time they would express their grateful 
acknowledgments of the favours conferred on them by the 
members of the British Aristocracy. 

The Literary department of the volume of " The Worid of 
Fashion" for 1837, concluded with our last number, contains 
the contributions of several persons of rank and distinction, 
with others by universally- admired authors. Our anonymous 
contributors, whose effusions have graced the pages of *' The 
Worid of Fashion" wiU be pleased to accept our thanks. 

A happy new year to all ! May pleasure and peace dwell at 
the famUy fireside in this " merry Christmas" time, and " par- 
ties and baUs," in country and town, realize the highest expecta- 
tions that may be formed of them. Christmas, though it 
brings frost and snow without doors, is always attended with 
joy and hilarity within. And we are happy to hear that the 
parties of distinction that have been made up in the mansions 
of the nobility, exceeding in number those of any former season. 
We hope that the state of the weather will be such as to enable 
Vol. XV. 

the holiday-makers to enjoy out-door recreations, for nothing 
is more exhilirating than a ride in a clear winter's day : and 
some of our female equestrians manage their steeds as ably as 
any " lord of the creation." Her Majesty is a very skilful 
horsewoman, though apparently timid : the Clueen Dowager 
has more confidence, and " backs the bounding steed" with 
grace and spirit. But if the weather be such as to keep the 
beaux and belles within the house, there are, nevertheless, 
inexhaustible sources of amusement and gratification in the 
many pursuits of refined society, which can be enjoyed to the 
utmost in such parties as those to which we have alluded. 
Though tempests rage, there is peace and comfort round " the 
winter's hearth." 

When Winter, 'mid the Arctic zone 

Erects his shining icy throne. 

And sends his stormy blasts to sweep 

The frozen field, and heaving deep ; 

When days are short, and frost is strong. 

And nights are dismal, dark and long ; 

When rivers make a mighty roar. 

And wreck bestrews a craggy shore ; 

When snow invests the lofty hills. 

And shine bright rows of icicles ; 

When birds their forest haunts forsake, 

And merry curlews seek the lake ; 

When loudly sounds the dashing rain, 

And lone the grove and withered plain : 

When wearied wanderers homeward hie, 

Ere night shall gloom the starless sky. 

And cold and cheerless is the earth — 

How pleasant seems the winter's hearth 1 

How pleasant, too, at evening drear. 

When loud the gusty storm we hear. 

By sparkling fire and taper bright, 

That cheer the gloom of sullen night, 

With friends to gossip, or peruse 

The many crowded page of news ; 

When loud without the tempest roars. 

And wintry winds assail the doors ; 


Vnitn thick the ^vhistUnp snow-drift flies, 
And curling wreaths in valleys rise- 
How sweet to sit, by eveninp's blaze, 
With those we loved in early days, 
And talk of many a hnpjiy year, 
And scenes to recollection dear. 
When life, undimmed by cloud or care, 
I n prospect si-emed an Eden fair, 
And when no rivalry could part 
The friendly ties that bound the heart ! 
Oh ! when released from fashion's thrall. 
Our youthful feats we thus recall, 
And look, with retrospective view, 
To childhood's sports, we seem anew 
To taste of boyish glee and mirth. 
While seated by the winter's hearth ! 



No swonls have clash'd, no orphan's tears are trembling, 

No widow shuns the scene ; 
In peace, in joy, from far and near assembling. 

The people hail their Queen : 
God save the Queen ! Nor be thou unregarded 

Who set'st apart serene ; 
In one bright hour for anxious years rewarded— 

The mother of our Queen. 

The course in which Her Majf.sty has proceeded, since our 
iH^t publication has been so quiet, even, and, 
that little opportunitv is afforded the biographer for commen - 
tarv Her Majf.sty has been compelled to remain in town 
lontrer than was intended, in conse.pience of the delay in Par- 
liament with respect to the Civil List, and the provision for her 
Royal Hiirhness the Duchess of Kknt, matters in winch Her 
Majrstv is deeply and personally interested, and respecting 
which she had frequentlv to be consulted. It is with much 
pleasure that we have testimonials of the excellence of the cha- 
racter of the mother of our voung Queen from the lips of men 
of all parties in the Legislature, and that we are able to state 
that the delay to which we have alluded was not caused by any 
unwillingness to admit the virtues of the Duchess of Kknt, and 
the claim which her Roval Highness has upon the gratitude of 
the eountrv, by having broupht her illustrious daughter from 
childhood to 9o elorinus a maturity, but solely by political dis- 
agreements. Her Howl Highness receives an addition of 
i.'8,000 to her income, which is now fixed, therefore, at £ 30,000 

per year. ..^, ■ u 

The invituHons to the royal table during the month have been 
more than usually numerous, and have included the leading 
members of the aristocracy then in town. Occasionally, when 
the weather has permitted, her Majksty has taken a nde in the 
parks in an open carriage. We had the pleasure of meeting Her 
Majesty upon one of these occasions, and the dignity, graceful- 
ness, and simple elegance of her manner, in acknowledging the 
mark of respect which her presence elicited, were such as we 
read of in stories of embodied grace, and never hope to find in 
aetuul life. The reigu of Viciokia caunot fail to be glorious ; 

f„r sure we arc, that the sight of her pure sunny countenance 
must inspire the men of England universally to make it so fhc 
pictures of the Quebn convey but a very imperfect idea of her 
As far as the outlines of the countenance go. they ""^Y he «a.d 
to constitute a likeness ; but they all want the soul tha^n« 
ai. Victoria's face. We could write an essay upon that face, 
aid would willingly devote our time even at this f-tive period, 
to the purpose ; but the " copy" of our contributor in the va- 
rious departments of this Courtly portion of our magazine « 
before us, and it is all so important and interesting, that we 
defer the gratification of our inclinations, and proceed to the 

narration of facts. , 4i,„„t,„ 

HerMAJKSTY,then,hastwiceattendedCovent-garden theatre, 

private. At the former theatre her M A JESTY has seen the new 
opera of ^>»./ie. and the tragedy of 3f«cie</. (which has been 
produced in a most exquisite manner by Mr. Macrkai)y) ; at 
The latter, Joan of Arc. Her Majesty has also tw.ce honoured 
the performances of the Opera Buffo company with her presence. 
A very novel evidence of the presence of Christmas has l>een 
affonlld through the skill and ability of a lady, ,n t^e^h^pe of 
a bouquet of gay and beautiful flowers, which Mr-. Lawrence 
Jad the of presenting to the Q.-een. The bouquet .. 
acknowledged, for splendour and variety, never to base been 
equalled in'this eountW ; a circumstance which, ---^"'^ ^f/ 
period of the vearat which it was collected, is most remaiWable. 
The Court will remain at Windsor until February. 


Thf Drawing Rooms.— Great expectations are formed in 
the fashionable circles of the first series of "--"f -~^ ;,;! 
he hold by Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, the ^-^ " ^^ich wc 
have reason to believe, will take place early in tebruary. I re- 
Lt, s are beinp made by several distinguished ladMis who 
!:;ra"xious to appear in most brilliant and ''"racUv. cos^tu- 
upon -o happy an occasion, and the jewellers at the West-eml 
are actively engaged in consequence in the formation of the 
recesSy ornaL'nts. We have seen one of the -s ^orj-u 
l,ead ornaments that human ingenuity can P»«^' 'V J^*^'*^ 
(f..rmed entirely of brilliants, disposed in a «"--Jf ^^^ 
manner) which is completed, and which h.u been ex- 
hibited to a few of the immediate personal fnends of the noble 
wner. whose name we do not feel at liberty to mention. Seve- 
aTfashionable dress-makers have --■--'^ -^;'7^'""!.;; Je 
wishes of their patronesses ; and with respect to trains, the 
mbroidery therein wUl be extremely grand ; the -'"'^^^PP^; " 
hTdetermined to put forth all their talents to render embroi- 
V permanently popular. Several delulanUs - ^J-^^J 
first Drawing-room, among whom it is expected there will be 
,:fdau.liter of a gentleman of high f ^-f^ -/"f '^^t 
landed property in the north, whose «^harms are of the most 
spiritua and captivating descripti.m, and ^*'"' '^ «/"«'P '-3; 
;^ in,e tk. beauty of the season. The Queen it - tho^«" -; 
remain in London during the whole season. Her M^iesty s 
sZ at Windsor will not extend beyond January, when she wiU 
ao-ain txke up her residence at Buckingham Palace. 
^The CORONATION.-The Coronation of our young and 
lovdy Soyere'gn will not take place so eariy as was expected ; 
the mon?h of May has been mentioned, but it is not likely to 
a e lUce until June or July, when it will be solemnized w^th 
surpassing magnificence. The late banquet in the City was 


accompanied by tlie revival of several ancient customs, -which I 
show that the accession of a female to the throne has already 
awakened the chivalrous and ancestral recollections of the 
nation. The splendour of the late civic occasion is, however, 
but a faint foreshow of the ' ' pomp and circumstance" that will 
be displayed when the nobility and commonalty of three ancient 
and illustrious kingdoms shall, for the first time in their com- 
mon history, assemble to place 

The high imperial type of Briton's glory 
on the youthful brow of a beauteous and beloved maiden Sove- 
reign. A coronation, as is well known, is an epitome of the 
genius of the monarchy, in which every grade and rank of 
society is entitled to do suit and service in the place and state 
which appropriately belongs to it ; and, upon this occasion, we, 
believe there will be no lack of loyalty on this part of any class 
of Her Majesty's faithful subjects. It is reported that there is 
a revival or modification of various old decorations and privi- 
leges which for some reigns have fallen into disuse. That her 
Majesty's sympathies and excellent taste accords with the wish 
that has long been felt for an improved Court dress may be in- 
ferred from her having fixed upon the stately trained robe of a 
former age for drawing-room occasions. We hope that the vile 
menial livery, steel buttons, frilled shirts, knee-hreeches, 
pumps, and bags, in which our aristocracy have hitherto had to 
pref.ent themselves to the Sovereign, will forthwith be banished 
from levees, and that each degree will have allotted to it an 
appropriate uniform. We know that the taste of Queen Vic- 
toria is exquisitely refined, and we, therefore encourage the 
expectation that this horrid court dress will be reformed. 
Surely our young and beautiful Sovereign will not like to see 
herself attended and surrounded by a parcel of petit-maitre 
looking gentlemen, better fit for the stage of the playhouse than 
the Co\irt. 

The Crown of Queen Victoria. — Much speculation is 
afloat with regard to the crown that is to be worn by the Queen, 
and many curious reports are in circulation, but nothing has 
yet been decided. The crown that is worn by the Sovereign in 
the House of Lords is what is denominated the." Parliamentary 
Crown," and is not that with which the ceremony of the coro- 
nation is performed. It is the construction of this crown, and 
the mode of wearing it, which occupy some attention. The 
crown is of course to fit the head destined to wear it ; and if 
the existing crown were used for the purpose, it would not 
sparkle brilliantly on her Majesty's fair and serene brow, but 
literally cover her head, and rest upon her shoulders ; therefore, 
the Parliamentary crown is to be made smaller, but equally 
splendid in its adornments. One difference will be made in its 
formation : no coloured jewels will be used in its construction ; 
the whole wiU present a dazzling mass of diamonds of the 
purest water, emblematic of the heart and mind of the Illus- 
trious wearer. Thea how is it to be worn ? All sorts of au- 
thorities, graphic and pictorial, have been consulted for the 
purpose of ascertaining what has been the custom. The [pic- 
tures of English crowned Queens represent the crown as worn at 
the back of the head. We remember how Queen Adelaide wore 
the crown on the day of her coronation ; and, moreover, how 
exceedingly becoming several of the Peeresses contrived to 
make their coronets. The notion that many people entertain 
is, that Queen Victoria proposes to wear the crown upon ordi- 
nary occasions, which we take to be erroneous. It would be 
exceedingly inconvenient, and has ceased to be the custom ever 
since Bishops took leave of their accustomed walks and rides in 
sandals and a mitre. Let the coronation come when it may, 

all English hearts will, we feel persuaded, beat high with 
loyalty and affection for the fair cause of its celebration ; and 
as to the fashion in which her Majesty may choose to wear the 
crown, it is to us a matter of indifference, so as she live to wear 
it long — long and happily ; and in that sentiment we believe 
every reader — even the fair disputants, whether it should be 
worn over the forehead or at the back of the head — most cor- 
dially agree. 

A Break-up in High Life. — The breaking up of the 
establishment of a very dashing Earl is one of the events which 
is just now occupying the attention of the gossiping world. The 
nobleman alluded to, not many years ago, came into a clear 
rental of 40,000Z. a-year, and 100,O00Z. in ready money. The 
principal cause of this smash has been an inordinate passion for 
horses, and a lofty ambition to be distinguished on the turf. 
To such a pitch was this infatuation carried, that at one time 
his Lordship was actually in possession of five hundred horses. 
It is hoped that a few years' rustication will convince the peer 
of the value of moderation. 

The Egremont Family. — We are given to understand 
the late Earl of Egremont has, by his will, given to the pre- 
sent Earl the ancient family residence in Somersetshire, called 
Orchard Wyndham, and 16,000L per annum; to his eldest 
son. General Wyndham, he has bequeathed the Cumberland 
estates, with Cockermouth Castle, amounting to 15,000/. 
a-year ; to George Wyndham, Petworth House, the estate ad- 
joining, and 60,000L in cash : to his third son, the whole of 
his funded property, amounting to about 220,000/. Three per 
Cents, ; to each of his daughters, 45,000/. ; legacies have been 
left to many friends and artists who have been patronized by 
his Lordship ; and the estates have been charged with adequate 
annuities for the lives of his various domestics. The executors 
are Colonel Wyndham and Sir Charles Burrel, 

Men about Town. — We beg to warn certain young gentle- 
men who move in the first society, who are frequently to be seen 
lounging in St. James's of a morning, and who seem to be very 
vain of their black locks, and very extravagant in their expenses 
for oiling and curling the same, that they put us to some diffi- 
culty to decide whether they are not the apprentices or " helps" 
of some hair-dresser and perfumer. Their elaborately dressed 
locks serve on many occasions the same purpose that a " bar- 
ber's pole" did in former times, and if gentlemen will hang out 
the sign, they must be content to endure the consequences. 
We may state, however, for the information of these exquisites, 
that their fashion is not more new than it is manly or cleanly. 
Chaucer gives us an account of a certain knight with whom 
" there was his son a young squire 

" With locks crull as they were laide in presse." 
But if our young gentlemen will imitate the foppery of the 
fourteenth century, they ought certainly to imitate its excel- 
lence as well ; but, unfortunately, in modern times, we seldom 
meet with a puppy who is at once greasy and gi-acious. 

A Bright Similie. — a fashionable jeweller, recommending 

his diamonds to Lady C , observed that " they sparkled , 

like the tears of a young widow." 

A " Miss"-ing Affair. — People are marvellously fond of 
making targets of themselves. Lord Edward Thynne has stood 
up to be shot at since our last publication. A duel has been . 
fought in Battersea fields between his Lordship and a gentle- 
man of the name of Passmore. It is reported that a young 
lady was the fair cause of quarrel, and that after exchanging 
three shots each, the parties separated without a reconciliation. 
Thus were six Misses employed to avenge the cause of one. 



To the Editor of the World of Fashion. 

Sir — I do not doubt but that your subscribers will read with 
much interest of the manner in which the time of Louis Phi- 
lippe, one of the greatest, and certainly the richest of European 
sovereigns, is passed in his domestic circle. Having been for 
some years connecte<l with the Court of Paris, and possessing 
opportunity of observation which fall to the lot of very few, j 
am able to submit to you the following interesting particulars. 
His Majesty is an early riser : his attendants are frequently 
summoned by seven o'clock, although his customary hour is 
eight. His attention is first turned to public business : he does 
not break his fast, indeed, until he has read iiU the letters 
which are handed to him, aud given directions to his secretary 
concerning those which require immediate attention. This 
done, the King proceeds to his dressing-room, when his family 
are admitted to offer their respects and duty. The whole 
family often remain in the room engaged in animated conversa- 
tion while the King is engaged at his toilet, the duties of which 
occupy him for nearly an hour, a considerable part of which 
time is devoted to his teeth, which are very white and regular, 
and of which the King is not a little proud. At ten o'clock 
breakfast is announced. This meal is remarkable for its singu- 
larity. What do you suppose is generally the principal article 
on the table ? Potatoes ! — actually potatoes. Louis Philippe 
breakfasts upon potatoes, dressed with great simplicity. 

Immediately after breakfast the King visits the works pro- 
ceeding in the chateau. From these excursious His Majesty 
frequently returns with his habilaments covered with mortar 
and dust, for he takes great pleasure in creeping under the scaf- 
foldings and climbing to the roof, to assure himself that the 
•works are executed in strict compliance with his orders. He 
chats with the workmen, who are seldom aware that the indivi- 
dual with whom they converse so familiarly is no other than the 
King of the French ! 

These excursions generally terminate abowt one o'clock, when 
the Council of Ministers assembled. The King never fails to 
be present at their meetings ; he sits down at the common 
table, takes immediate possession of a sheet of paper, and while 
attentively listening to the deliberation, he sketches with his pen 
a variety of figures, either grotesque or fanciful. 

The Council having broken up, he takes leave of his Minis- 
ters and retires. The latter then dispute with one another the 
po€session of the sketches that have escaped from the Royal pen. 
These sketches afterwards serve to enrich the albums of the 
ladies about the Court, while the artist himself, probably, little 
di cams of the value attached to his performances. I have in 
my possession three of these sketches, and beautiful little things 
they are. Ljidy G has one or two of them. 

After this. His Majesty proceeds through the Tuileries and 
Louvre. He is at present much occupied with the galleries 
preparing for the Spanish Museum, which is to be placed in 
the wing where the clock is, and in that opposite to the Pont 
des Arts. As an antechamber, there will be a room fitted up vsith 
a variety of articles belonging to the time of Henri IV., vNhich 
have been found in the Tuileries, for Louis Philippe professes a 
great veneration for the Bearnais. The King often enters the 
work-rooms of the artists employed about the Louvre. He sits 
down with them, examines their designs with the eye of a con- 
noisseur, pronounces his opinions, which are almost always dic- 
tated by sound criticism, and tukcs evident delight in seeing his 

pictures terminated. When he leaves, he has l)een noticed to 
sigh, and cast a melancholy look on the Place dc Louvre and 
the quays, recollecting, with regret, the time when, with his 
umbrella under his arm, he wandered unaccompanied through 
the streets of Paris, visiting the buildings in a state of pro- 
gress, and almost invariably stopping before the shops of the 
dealers in prints and lithographs. About two years ago an 
officer of his household attempted to reprimand a captain of the 
National Guard, who came all bespattered with mud, to take 
his place at the Royal table. " Blame him not," said the 
King, "he is a happy fellow to have it in his power to make 
himself dirty. (// est bien heureux de pouvoir se crolter ainsi.) 

At dinner the Queen sits down with her children, her sister 
in-law, and the guests who have been invited, without waiting 
for the King, who seldom arrives till towards the end of the 
repast. He helps himself to a plate of soup, which he frequently 
sends away after tasting it, on finding that it has got cold. A 
fowl boiled with rice (poulet au riz) is then placed before him ; 
this he cuts up with his own hand, and generally eats nearly 
the whole of it. He then takes up a bunch of grapes or a hand- 
ful of dry fruit, rises from table, and with his dessert in his 
hand withdraws to an adjoining apartment, where all the news- 
papers published in France are laid out for his perusal. 

The King very attentively peruses this mass of political dis- 
sertations, and seems to find much amusement in the irreverent 
jests at his expense, in which the pelits journaux so unsparingly 
abound. At the time when the Charivari and the Caricature 
published nearly every day a grotesque representation of the 
Royal person, he was often seen to laugh heartily at their 
sketches, and in the evening talked of them in his family circle, 
at times even showing them about with his own hand. After 
he has read the papers, the King joins the Queen in her salon, 
and receives the persons admitted to the evening reception. If 
nothing has happened during the day to disturb his good 
humour, his Majesty's conversation is unreserved aud highly 
instructive. He has seen much, is extremely well informed, 
tells a story remarkably well, and takes evident pleasure in 
doing so. If any foreigner of distinction happens to be admitted 
to the circle, the King, who speaks several languages with 
facility, usually addresses him in his native tongue. Louis 
Philippe, it must not be forgotten, is a man of the most strict 
morality. Never has he afforded an opportunity to the most 
audacious calumny to breathe even an indirect insinuation 
against his private life. 

At ten, the King retires to his own apartment, undresses, puts 
on his dressing-gown, and often works till two or three in the 
morning. He never, by any chauee, affixes his signature to any 
document, without having first ascertained the nature of its 
contents. He takes notes of everything, and classifies these 
notes according to a method of his own, intended to facilitate 
future reference. To every sentence of death the King devotes 
a most religious attention ; every document connected with the 
trial must be submitted to him, he studies them in a most con- 
scientious manner, and never signs them till he has acquired a 
perfect conviction of the guilt of the assassin. 

If his work is finished at an early hour, the King repairs to 
the Queen's apartment ; if not, a lit de camp is prepared for 
him, the hardness of which must remind the Royal sleeper of 
the couch of the professor of Reichenau. A V. 

Why is her Majesty, Queen Victoria, like the superintendant 
of a railway ? — Because she has just started the trains. 




Amateur theatricals have become, of late years, part of the 
amusements of fashionable society, and there are several persons 
of distinction at whose houses the petite dramas of the stage are 
given with admirable spirit and excellence. There is not, per- 
haps, a more agreeable pastime ; unlike all others, the very 
preparations for this are productive of amusement and gratifi- 
cation. A ball is over in one night : a card party the same ; 
and the arrangements for these are dull and formal : but for a 
play there is the formation of the theatre, the selecting of plays, 
the casting of characters, the disposal of parts, the study, the 
rehearsal, and many little incidents arising from them which 
keep the parties engaged in a continued state of pleasurable 
excitement. And then, when the night of the play comes, what 
tremors, palpitations, hopes and fears, embarrassments and 
apprehensions, all giving place to one overpowering feeling of 
delight, when the approving voices of the audience are heard, 
encouraging the amateur's exertions. Saltram, the seat of the 
Earl of MoRLEY, has been the scene of a dramatic entertain- 
ment of the most pleasing character, and which has given the 
most unqualified delight to the gentry of the neighbourhood, 
who were honoured with invitations. The theatre was erected 
in the grand saloon, rich in pictured wealth. The performances 
commenced with a prologue written by Mr. Wightwich, and 
spoken by Sir Hp,nry Blackwood, in the character of a poor 
actor. We cannot compliment the author upon the merits of 
his composition, which was spoken, however, with much point, 
by Sir Henry. The little drama of Perfection followed, the 
characters being thus sustained. 

Sir Lawrence Paragon. . . . Mr. Bulteel. 

Charles Paragon Mr Edgcumbe. 

Sam Mr. Henry Brand. 

Kate O'Brien Mrs. Edgcumbe. 

Susan Mrs. Ellice. 

Mr. BuLTEEL sustained the character of the old baronet with 
infinite humour, and Mr. and Mrs. Edgcumbe, in the amusing 
parts of Chm-les and Kate, were much and very deservedly ap- 
plauded. Mrs. Ellice and Mr. Brand enacted Sam and 
Susan with irresistible humoiir. 

The comedy of Simpson lV Co. followed, and was performed 
in a manner that would have brought the stage manager of a 
London theatre to announce its repetition " every evening until 
further notice." 

Mr. Simpson Sir George Whitmore. 

Mr. Bromley Sir Henry Blackwood. 

Forster Major Palk. 

Servant Mr. H. Brand. 

Mrs. Simpson Lady Morley. 

Mrs. Bromley Mrs. Ellice. 

Mrs. Fitzallan Lady Elizabeth Bulteel 

Madame La Trappe Mrs. Edgcumbe. 

Sir George Whitmore contrived to look, move, and speak, 
the perfect Peter Simpson. His innocent perplexities — his 
occasional out-burstings of conscious integrity, and his sudden 
impulse to exhibit the shew of a little extra gallantry, were all 
hit off in the most effective manner. Lady Morley was the 
true Mrs. Simpson ; by turns, unsettled in domestic content, 
indignant under the imagined Lotharioisms of her truly faithful 

Spouse, and prompt to admit the instantaneous return of all 
her fondness, when she ultimately discovers that he whom she 
had regarded as " every body's little Peter," is her " little 
Peter," only. We were not surpised at the finished perfection 
of the portrait, and have only to regret that such an admirable 
piece of art is not susceptible of the same perpetuation 
which preserves to the future her Ladyship's performances on. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bromley, as enacted by Sir Henry Black- 
wood and Mrs. Ellice, formed an admirable contrast to the 
Simpsons. The confusion of the intriguer was represented with 
much nature by Sir Henry, and we were especially struck 
with the gratuitious moralisings in which he so conscientiously 
indulged on the subject of his partner's little " peccadillos." 
Mrs. Ellice read to all the wives of " Mincing-lane," a lesson 
of true grace and effeminate dignity ; exhibiting with peculiar 
felicity the happy mean between the fluent and the emphatic in 
dialogue, and betwixt the gentle and the energetic in action ; 
and, but that Mr. Bromley had certainly no reason to indulge in 
any notions of a faithless hue, we should say, in regard to his 
Harley-street perambulations, that the Mrs. Fitzallan of the 
evening would have been (supposing such an irregularity under 
any circumstances admissible) his best apology, for Lady 
Elizabeth Bulteel was her representative. In the part of 
Madame La Trappe Mrs. Edgcumbe again appeared to win, 
with her pretty broken English and Parisian manner, the ap- 
plause of the company. 

At the conclusion of Simpson <^ Co. the Countess of Morley 
delivered an Epilogue, written by her ladyship, and spoken with 
distinguished point, humour, and grace. A copy of this piquant 
production will, doubtless, be <;ritifying to our readers. 


Written by the Countess of Morley. 
The mimic scene is past, the curtain falls, 
But plaudits still re-echo from the walls, 
Sweeter than music to our grateful ears. 
Your friendly bravos — your approving cheers, 
Simpson's the rage ! Old Drury sounds his fame — 
Exulting Saltram echoes back his name. 
And little Peter basks in royal favour. 
Am / then bound to alter my behaviour ? 
Methinks I will — 'Twere better policy — 
If once he gets to court, why so may I ! 
And in those days when female power must rise, 
The court's the sphere for female enterprise. 
Creation's Lords — thank Heaven ! — have had their day, 
Creation's Ladies now shall hold the sway. 
To right our wrongs the youthful Queen is bent, 
O glorious days of female government ! 
Long may ye last 1 and be it soon our fate 
To guide the secret councils of the state. 
But who to rule the state would dare to boast, 
M'ho had not learnt at home to rule the roast ? 
I've played that game, and find it vastly easy, 
And now I'll teach it you, if so it please ye ; 
Some useful hints then, ladies, in your ear, 
Which if you'll follow (husbands must not hear) 
You're sure to rule them with despotic sway : — 
Always in trifles let them have their way ; 
On soups and entrees bow to their opinion ; 
O'er dogs and horses grant them full dominion ; 
Insist you think their arguments so clever 



On whist and billiards, you're convinced for ever ; 
Ami tliiit on I'ort and (Uiirct you're content 
To hold their judpment quite omnipotent ; 
Your tyrant, thus deceived, becomes your tool : 
Still, though you rule him, never show you rule. 
Rivals in love tliey cordially hate, 
Uivals in power they abominate I 

COrder, Order !) 
"Who calls to order ? — How am I transgressing ? 
Not you ; the ladies, sir, I was addressing. 
I see you tremble, lest I go too far, 
Encourairine: revolt and civil war, 
The fearful fruits of our emancipation : 
Allow me then a word in explanation ; 
I dread, like you, reforms and revolutions ; 
•Tis to support established institutions, 
As ancient as the siepe of Troy, I seek : 
The great Atrides was a Jerry Sneak, 
Nay, I could cite, but that I dread to bore ye, 
Examples withcmt end from ancient story, 
Occurrences as old as the creation. 
Proving the rule of inixn the innovation. 

{Aside.) — But am I wise and prtident ? on reflection, 
Suing for public favour and protection. 
One -half my audience thus by taunts provoking ? 
Believe me, gentlemen, I'm only joking. 
You know too well — howe'er we scorn and flout ye — 
We all had rather die than live without ye. 
Your praise we covet, your applause we prize, 
E'en as the light that visits our bright eyes. 
Nay, I, with all my airs of domination, 
Crave at your hands one clap of approbation. 
Be generous then ! exceed the boon we ask. 
And if you deem we well have done our task, 
Again let plaudits echo from the walls, 
To crown our triumph as the curtain falls. 

The National Anthem followed ; when, in addition to the 
various ladies and gentlemen whom we have had the honour to 
notice as performers, " Our Gracious Queen" had the benefit 
of most efhcient aid in the exertions of Lady Whitmore, Miss 
Ellicc, Miss Calmadv, &c. 



The Drama's laws the Drama's patrons give ; 
And they who live to please must please to live. 

The Opera BufTa company have been giving some very interest- 
ing performances at the Lyceum, during the past month, which 
have attracted a good deal of fashionable company, her Majesty, 
who isextremdy fond of music and musical entertainments, 
having twice honoured the theatre with her presence. A great 
deal hiis been said as to the Jilleged impropriety of the Lord 
Chamberlain sanctioning the performances of a stcond Italian 
company in London ; the English performers contending that it 
is an act of injustice to them, as it prevents the public from 
patronizing them as it otherwise would, while the advocates of 
the BufTa Company cuutend, an the other huud, thut the fre- 

quenters of the performances at the Lyceum are not the persons 
who would visit the other theatres were there no Buffa Com- 
pany in existence ; so that those persons are amused, v»hile 
the English performers are uninjured. There is much to be 
said on both sides of the question. That the English theatres 
are languishing for want of patronage is beyond dispute ; but 
what is the cause of their unfortunate condition. It was quite 
as bad before the establishment of the Opera Buffa. And when 
there is anything worth seeing or hearing at the English theatres, 
it does not lack patrons. 

The most amusing of the novelties produced by the Opera 
Buffa company have been that charming production of Rossini, 
L'Inganno Felice, which he gave to the world as his first 
performance, and in wliicli the original purity and beauty of his 
style are brilliantly displayed; and Donezet.I's pleasaat 
burletta, // CampaneUo. We do not think highly of Ricci's 
11 Nuovo Figaro. It is of a feeble and common-place cha- 
racter. The company is respectable, but not great ; they who 
go to the Lyceum expecting to hear anything like the singing of 
Grisi or RuBiNi will be disappointed, but those who will be 
contented with a pleasant evening's entertainment wiU be gra- 

The Havmarket is filled every night with good company, 
for Mr, Knowles's admirable comedy of The Luve Chace is 
played there, excellently enacted in all its characters; and 
Covent Garden, under the able managcmentof Mr. Macready, 
is again becoming a place of fashionable resort. The English 
performers have themselves to blame for all the misfortunes that 
have occurred to them — or rather the English managers, 
although the performers have been willing accessaries to the 
foolish aud disgraceful proceedings of the managers. 

COVENT-GARDEN. — Massinger's play of The City 
Madam, compressed into three acts, and newly-christened 
Riches, has been revived at this theatre, Mr. Macready sus- 
taining the character of Luke, and with great force aud deiitli 
of feeling ; his performance was much admired and applauded, 
but the actor himself does not appear to have been satisfied 
with it, and the performance was not repeated. We noticed 
the weak parts of Mr. Macready's acting, but stiU its merits 
were so great that tlie gifted actor needed not to have been 
nnder any apprehension of his well-earned reputation suffering 
by the repetition of this exceUent and interesting drama. After 
the play on the same evening, a new spectacle was produced, 
entitled Juan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans, which surpasses 
every thing of the kind we ever witnessed upon our stage. It 
is a gorgeous spectacle, full of life and reality ; the actors all 
seem to be earnest in what they do, and a most exceUently 
arranged stage-fight is carried on with a vigour almost terrific. 
The scenery is extremely beautiful ; one picture representing a 
ruined cathedral has an effect perfectly dioramic, and would not 
have been unworthy of the pencil of the Chevalier Bouton. The 
story of yoano/ yl/c must be familiar to our readers, and we 
need therefore only state that Miss Hcddart enters so fully 
into the spirit of the character of the young and bold enthusijist, 
that we can imagine the very being herself before us, rallying 
the dispirited Frenchmen and leading them on to conquest and 
glory. The whole of the characters, indeed, are well repre- 
sented, and the spectacle has been very attractive. 

Mr. Rooke's new opera of Amilie ; or. The Love Test, has 
been produced at this theatre with decided and well-deserved 
success. We are told that this composition, one of the purest 
and most charming of English operas, was offered to the 
manager of Drury Lane, but that he refused it iu conscqueace 


of the author being unknown. It was then taken to Mr. 
Macready, who submitted it to the opinion of competent 
judges, upon whose recommendation it was produced. The 
result has proved the correctness of their opinion. The story 
is complicated, and not very interesting. The music, however, 
is a succession of exquisite melodies (some of them full of 
intense feeling) and finely wrought concerted pieces. There is 
a charming ballad in the first act, which Miss Shireff sings 
with adequate grace and pathos. The following are the words. 
Love art thou true ? — the echoes answers yes : 
They heard thy vows, but most my heart replies 
And memoi-y brings the song who loved so well, ; 
As tribute to my bosom's thrilling hopes. 
Thou art gone, and no voice in the loved tone sings, 
But my heart needs no voice to wake memory's strings ; 
Thou art gone, but a lovely and pitying sprite 
Is whispering thy name — 'tis the breath of the night. 
Oh, love ! thou art absent, yet thou art near. 
For the song you loved comes on my ear ; 
The notes of thy lute in the breezes play. 
All whispering thy name, the' thou'rt far away. 
Mine eyes see the turf where thy feet have been, 
My check feels thy kiss which no eye hath seen. 
Thou art gone, but a lovely and pitying sprite 
Now whispers thy name — 'tis the breath of the night. 
A nice playful waltz, sung by Miss Horton, " To the Vine 
Feast," is introduced with excellent effect in one of the scenes, 
and is immediately followed by a perfect musical gem, " My 
Royhood's Home," sung by Mr. H. Phillips, with exquisite 
feeling and expression. This one song alone would have gained 
for Mr. RooKE the reputation of a great composer ; and it is 
due to Mr, Phillips to state, that his singing is not inferior to 
the music. We subjoin the words of this noble song : — 


My boyhood's home, oh welcome sight ! 

Green spot of memory ever dear. 

In youth my subject prayer at night, 

In age a joy no time can sear ; 

The thunder of the battle ne'er 

Could drown thy yellow cornfields' song — 

My heart has often dream'd 'twas there. 

The' death came on the breeze along. 

My boyhood's home I see thy hills, 
I see thy valley's changeful green, 

And manhood's eye a tear-drop fills 

Tho' years have roll'd since thou wer't seen 1 

I come to thee from war's dread school, 

A warrior stern o'er thee to rule. 

But while I gaze on each loved plain, 

I feel I am a boy again. 
To the war steed adieu, to the trumpet farewell. 
To the pomp of the palace, the proud gilded dome, 
For the sweet scenes of childhood I bid you farewell, 
The warrior returns to his boyhood's loved home. 

Phillips has another fine song, " Woman's Love," which 
he also does perfect justice to. Wilson has some sweet music 
to deliver, and he performs his task well. A light sparkling 

melody in the opening concerted piece, is full of freshness and 
brilliancy ; and a solo immediately following, " The ice clad 
Alps," the music of which is vigorously and feelingly written, 
he also executed with great spirit. A very charming ballad by 
Miss Sheriff, " When the morning first dawns," never fails 
to elicit loud and long- continued cheers. We know of nothing 
in modern composition, except the Frieschutz, equal to the 
exquisitely wrought chorusses : they are In the Weber style, 
but Mr. RooKE is no imitator ; his compositions sparkle with 
the originality of a master mind. We have only space to advert 
to the gypsey song, by Mr. Manvers, as another of the gems 
of this excellent opera, which cannot fail to become a favourite 
with the public, and will permanently occupy a place in the 
musical classical library, on the shelf with Storace and Shield. 

The attraction of the new opera, and the new spectacle, has 
been such as to render the production of further novelty unne- 
cessary before Christmas. The pantomime is called Harlequin 
and Peeping Tom of Coventry. 

DRURY-LANE. — Mr. Balfe's new opera of Joan of Arc 
is not calculated to advance the composer's reputation. It is 
in many parts extremely dull, and the livelier passages remind 
us of the works of other musicians : then there is so much noise, 
so much drumming and trumpeting, such beating of gongs and 
rattling of cymbals, that we felt relieved and pleased when the 
performance was over. Miss Romer exerted herself to the 
utmost in the character of the heroine, and Messrs. Templeton, 
Balfe, Seguin, rnd Guibelea, sustained the other leading 
characters with their usual talent, but the effect was not at all 
satisfactory to us. As a spectacle, the piece was inferior to the 
Covent-garden drama. 

HAYMARKET. — A vulgar piece, called Wapping Old Stairs, 
and a melancholy melodrame, called Pierre Bertrand, were the 
only novelties before Christmas. Both were unsuccessful, and 
have been withdrawn. 

At the minor theatres there has been no novelties of the 
slightest importance. 

Burford's Panorama of New Zealand. — Mr. Bur- 
ford is exliibiting a new panorama at his rooms in Leicester 
Square, the subject, the Bay of Islands, New Zealand, and the 
surrounding country. It is a very interesting scene, and is 
painted with all that masterly talent for which Mr. Burford is 
celebrated. The panorama has the appearance of reality. 



" A young maiden's heart 

Is a rich soil, wherein lie many gems 
Hid by the cunning hand of nature there. 
To put forth blossoms in their fullest season ; 
And tho' the love of home first breaks the soil. 
With its embracing tendrils clasping it. 
Other affections, strong and warm, will grow. 
While one that fades, as summer's flush of bloom. 
Succeeds the gentle bidding of the spring." 

ITie Star of Seville. 

Hymen has been idle throughout the month : we have 
scarcely a marriage to describe : the belles of Fashion's world 
must have been extremely unkind, or the beaux extremely 
negligent. Charles E. Nugent, Esq., son of Sir George 


NuGEHT, Bart., and Louisa Dour.LAs.'daughtcr of Sir Rosa 
PRrcE, Bart., of Trangwaithan, Cornwall, head the list of th« 
" happy pair" who are to be immortalized in the columns of 
" The World of Fashion." 

Charles Nugent is a lucky swaiu 
To get a bride so nice ; 
A pretty Rose he doth obtain, 
And one too of high Price. 

At St. George's, Hanover Square, the only surviving daughter, 
(Ellen Hamilton) of the late W. Conyngham, Esq., of 
Upper Gower Street, has pronounced the nuptial vow which has 
made her the wife of the Rev. R. Cattermole, Bachelor of 

Now solve the riddle, if you can, 

That puzzles many brains ; 

Tiie bridegroom, though a married man, 

A bachelor remains. 

Although the marriages are few, the deaths that have occurred 
in December have been many. Louisa Viscountess Stor- 
MONT has paid the debt of nature, to the regret of a numerous 
circle of friends. Lady Inglis, relict of the late Lieut. -Gen 
Sir W. Inglis, has passed away from this sublunary sphere. 
We have also to record the decease of the Marquis of Queens- 
BERRY. His Lordship was the son of Sir William Douglas, 
of Kelhead, Bart. ; he was born in March, 1777 ; married, 13th 
of August, 1803, to Lady Caroline Montague Scott, third 
daughter of Henry, third Duke of Buccleugh (by whom he 
leaves a family of six daughters) ; and succeeded to the titles of 
Marquess and Earl of Queensberry, Visconnt of Drumlanrig, 
and Baron Douglas ot Hawick and Tibbers (Scottish titles), on 
tlie death of Charles, fourth Duke of Queensberry, on the 
23d of December, 1810. His Lordship was a K.T., a Baronet 
of Nova Scotia, Lord Lieutenant of the county of Dumfries, 
Colonel of tlie Diimfriesshire Militia, and a Director of the 
Royal Academy of Scotland, In 1833 he was created a British 
Peer, as Baron Solway, of Kinmont, and this title now becomes 
extinct. In his other hereditary honours his Lordship is suc- 
ceeded by his brother. Lord John Douglas, now Marquess of 
Queensberry, who married on the 1 6th of July, 1817, Sarah, 
daughter of James Sholto Douglas, Esq., by whom he has 
a son, Archibald, born the 18th ot April, 1818, and a 
daughter, Georgiana, born the 25th of July, 1819. Our 
list closes with the name of Viscount Dungannon, who died 
at his seat, at Baynkennalt, North Wales, in his 75th year. 
He is succeeded by his son, the Hon. Arthur Trevor, M.P. 
for Dui'ham. 


JANUARY, 1838. 

1 . — This is not a favourable day for pecuniary matters. 

2. — Good for old and young. 

3. — Solicit no favours to-day. 

4. — Evil predominates. Beware of rogues. 

5. — Highly propitious. Good actions will prosper. 

6. — E»jpect no good from the aged. 

7. — Unfavourable for marriage. Good for the literati. 
8. — Unfavourable for money concerns. 
9. — Propitious for courtship or marriage. 
10. — Money affairs will prosper, but nought else. 
1 1 . — Favours from the aged : but beware of accidents and 

12. — Avoid lawsuits, and beware of pilferers. 

13. — Blank. 

I4. — Unpropitious. 

15. — Fortunate for money matters. 

16 and 17. — Laudable undertakings will prosper. 

18. — Blank. 

19. — A truly unfortunate day. 

20. — The stars are favourable to all good intentions. 

21. — Slightly beneficial. 

22. — Seek no favours. 

23. — Blank. 

24. — A favourable day. 

25. — Seek for favours and friendship. 

26. — Beware of accidents and avoid quarrels. 

27. — Expect no favours. 

28. — Evil predominates. 

29. — Slightly good, but not for courtship or marriage. 

30. — Propitious. 

31. — Slightly evil. 


Contributions for the next number of "Tlie World of 
Fashion" should reach us by the 8th of January. 

We cannot clearly understand the communication from Ken- 
sington. Does Lady wish only one of the articles to be 

inserted ? 

The lines headed " To my Infant" do credit to the paternal 
feelings of the gallant Colonel by whom they have been for- 
warded, but the versification is faulty. 

We are most happy to hear again from " Amyntor," whose 
delightful little sketches have given so much satisfaction 
to our subscribers. " The Fairy's Home" came too late for 
our present publication, but it shall certainly have a place in our 

We trust that the slight alterations we have made in a cor- 
respondent's article will meet with the approbation of the writer. 

The "Adventures of Captain Foxy" are amusing enough, but, 
nevertheless, not fit for insertion in " The World of Fashion." 
We are the more surprised at the inelegant character of the 
article, knowing the hand whence it proceeds. 

" The Home of the Loved One" is under consideration. 

There is considerable merit in " The Bridal and the Be- 
trothed ;" but the denouement is too horrible. It is melo-drama 
run mad. A double parricide, three murders, two suicides, a 
ghost and a conflagration, are far beyond our powers of 

We should be glad to hear further from the talented friend of 
" A Subscriber," whose interesting little poem wc have 

" The Necklace of Pearls" in our next. 

Declined : — " Charolois," " L. E. R." " My Debut," 
" Thoughts on High Life." and all the " works" of •' Junius 

'^Y- 8o y/ry7t/i::^^r /!Az..m^c^7u> . iS3S. O/i/^/u/n^ Sc^ 

'?ta _£?y /-^^fS: 

-Tj^jLt/'Jh.y^^^Y^fT^^^J^-^^. /(^'M 3,v€^y ^ J^^i^^u^y ^M^ 


'/&>.yH?fJ6^/~^jL:^7ij, /83^. S/i/^n^^Mi^ 



^^^,^LU<^&y/^/^/i^ J^a^M'^^<:^ /^3S. Cs^/t^/i^/ia &-^Mi^ym^J^l^^i4^^. 

I ill 

'/z^ ^J^a^ &> yre^?^hid'/-'Mf^u^/ij, ii93^. G>/i 

^^%a^J. £/)/l€Lr^- f^J 





Fig. I. — Fawn-coloured silk robe ; mantle of blue-figured 
satin, lined and faced with peluche of a darker shade ; the lining 
turning over in the shawl style, forms a pelerine and robings. 
Hanging sleeves of a very large size, also lined and turned up 
■with peluche, and ornamented with it, and fancy silk trimmfng 
on the shoulder. A superb blue silk cordeliere confines the 
cloak round the waist. White rep velvet hat, a long brim, the 
interior trimmed with a bouillon of tulle ; white satin ribbons, and 
three long ostrich feathers adorn the crown. 


Fig. 2. — Open robe of white tulle over a white satin petticoat ; 
the latter is trimmed with a blond lace flounce, which is headed by 
a wreath of flowers. The robe is looped high at each side by a 
gerbe of flowers, and trimmed by a wreath which extends to the 
waist. A low corsage, and short sleeves, both decorated with 
flowers. The hair disposed in ringlets at the sides, and a full 
knot behind, is adorned en suite. 

YOUNG lady's dress. 

Fig. 3. — India muslin frock and pantaloons ; the corsage is 
trimmed with a Jichu drapery, and the sleeves with knots of 
ribbon. Ceinture, neck knot, and hair knots en suite. 

MORNING dress. 

Fig. 4. — Pou de Soie robe ; the colour is between violet and 
lilac ; the corsage wraps across ; it is half high, and draped on 
the bosom ; sleeves demi large. Embroidered muslin pelerine. 
Rose-coloured satin bonnet, a round and moderate sized brim, 
trimmed in the interior with flowers, a bouquet of which, with 
figured satin ribbons, adorn the crown. 


1 . — A back view of the ball dress, with a head-dress of hair 
differently arranged, and adorned with flowers. 

2. — Evening Dress of white satin, trimmed with roses, 
and coiffure a la Sevigne, also ornamented with them. 

3. — Carriage Bonnet and Shawl. — The first is com- 
posed of pink satin, ornamented with ribbons to correspond, and 
a white esprit. The shawl is black velvet, trimmed with black 
silk fringe. 

promenade dress. 
Fig. 1. — Robe of dark lavender pou de Soie; the border 
trimmed with a deep flounce. Blue rep velvet mantelet, bor- 
dered into a rouleau of sable. Sable muff. Lemon-coloured 
satin hat, an oval brim, and crown disposed in drapery. The 
trimming consists of ostrich feathers, and ribbons to correspond. 
The interior of the brim is trimmed with white flowers, and a 
bandeau of ribbons. 

evening dress. 
Fig. 2. — Grey lilac satin robe ; the border is trimmed with a 
double flouuce, «dged with Mechlin lace ; low corsage, trimmed 

with a pelerine lappet, and profusely ornamented, as are also 
the sleeves, with Mechlin lace. Head-dress, a German toque, 
composed of green velvet and gold lace, and trimmed with a 
single long white ostrich feather. 

carriage dress. 

Fig. 3. — Robe of maize-coloured gros de Naples. Polish 
mantle, bordered vrith a rouleau of sable. The shawl pelerine, 
and Venetian sleeves, give this cloak the appearance of a pelisse. 
Green velvet hat, a round brim ; the interior is trimmed with an 
intermixture of blond and ribbon ; the crown is adorned with a 
bird of paradise, dyed to correspond with the hat. 
half-length figures. 

1. — Morning Dress. — Striped straw-coloured gros de Na- 
ples robe. Black satin _^cAm a la paysanne, trimmed with antique 
black lace. The cap, composed of tulle, is a demi eomette, and 
trimmed with straw-coloured ribbon. 

2. — A back view of Fig. 1. 

3 . — A back view of the Jichu of Fig. 1 , and a blue satin wadded 


evening dress. 

Fig. 1. — White satin royal robe ; the skirt is trimmed with 
a double flounce, edged with pink satin at the bottom ; it is 
surrounded by a row of gold stars, and above them a flounce en 
suite. A low corsage, and short tight sleeves, trimmed to cor- 
respond with the skirt. The hair disposed in soft braids at the 
sides, and an open bow on the summit of the head is profusely 
adorned with coques, and ends of cherry-coloured velvet ribbon. 
opera dress. 

Fig. 2. — Robe of the new material Semiramide, trimmed with 
antique black lace. The mantle is black velvet, lined with cherry- 
coloured quadrilled satin ; it is of the Venetian form. The 
sleeves and fi-onts are edged with swans'-down. The hair dis- 
posed in soft braids at the sides, and a knot at the back of the 
head is ornamented with silver epis, and a long, curled, white 
ostrich feather. 

Evening dress. 

Fig. 3. — India muslin robe; the border is trimmed in the 
drapery stile, with a double flounce of lace. Black velvet man- 
telet, trimmed with black lace, fastened at the bosom by a cameo, 
and at the wrist by a knot of blue ribbon. Coiffure a la Fon- 
tanges, ornamented with gold pins and blue ribbons. 

half-length figures, &c. 

1. — Half Dress Cap of black velvet, trimmed with black 
lace, and black satin ribbon. 

2. — Evening Dress. — Pea-green satin robe, a low square 
corsage, and beret sleeves of a small size, both trimmed with 
lace. Black lace cap, ornamented with flowers and ribbons. 

3. — Evening Coiffure. — The hair is partially covered with 
a net composed of groseille velvet ribbons, and terminated by & 
full knot, with floating ends on one side. 





Fig. I . — Gros de KapU-s robe, straw colour, figured with 
black. Black velvet muntle, trimmed with rich brond black 
friiiire. Hat of blue iieliichts ; the interior of the brim is deco- 
rated, en bonnet, with tulle and ribbon ; the crown is adorned 
with white ostrich feathers. 


Fig. 2. — Green rep velvet robe, over a white satin under- 
dress ; tlie front is ornamented in a novel style with preen 
ribbon. Sleeves a la Pompadores. Bonnet a la Babel of tulle, 
trimmed with flowers and viseau ribbons. 


Fig. 3. — Lavender satin robe, trimmed with black lace. 
Black velvet mantelet and capuchon, lined with chcrry-colouied 


1. — Carriage Dress. — Pale blue satin robe, and straw- 
coloured wadded bonnet, trimmed with ribbons to correspond, 
and marabout feathers. The interior of the brim is decorated 
with tnlle and roses. 

2. — Morning Dress. — Fawn-coloured gros de Naples robe. 
Embroidered muslin pelerine, and pink satin bonnet, trimmed 
with flowers and ribbons. 

3. — A back view of a wadded morning bonnet. 



Fig. 1 . — Grey lilac pou de Soie robe, trimmed in a very novel 
style with flowers. Corsage a la Duchesse d' Orleans. Head- 
dress a bonnet Napolitaire of tulle, trimmed with roses. 


1. — A back view of the head-dress of Fip. 5. 

2. — Evening Cap. — A bonnet bouiltoiviee of tulle, trimmed 
with roses, and short white ostrich feathers. 

3. — Morning Cap of tulle, decorated with tiiseau ribbons. 

*• — Evening Dress. — Pink velours epinglp vahe. ; the cor- 
sage is trimmed, en revers, with blond. Coiffure a la Princesse 
Marie, ornamented with white feathers and fancy jewellery. 

5. — Evening Dress. — Green satin robe ; the corsage is 
trimmed with white satin. Head-dress of hair, decorated with 

6. — Opera Dress. — The mantelet is blue satin, wadded and 
trimmed with swans' -down. White satin hat, decorated with 

7. — A back view of the costume just described. 

8.— Evening Dress.— White satin robe ; it is trimmed, en 
fichii with tulle, edged with blond. Head-dress of hair, orna- 
mented with a geste of flowers. 



We greet our fair subscribers at the commencement of another 
year, with sincere good wishes for their health and welfare, and 
grateful thanks for the encouragement bestowed tipon our la- 
bours during the past year, and many preceding ones. Proud 
of their approbation, it has hitherto been our study to merit it, 
and we beg to assure them that the zeal and diligence with which 

we have hitherto laboured in our vocation, shall never be re- 
laxed while we continue it. We hasten to j)resent them with 
intelligence which will prove the sincerity of our declaration. 

Victoria Bonnet. — We may say with truth of this elegant 
head-dre>s, that it unites the simplicity of the English cottage 
bonnet, with the grace and tastefulncss of the French bihi. It 
is composed of satin, the crown is set in without stiffening, the 
brim rather close, but not unbecomingly so, and of moderate 
size, is cut long enough to quite envelope the chin ; oi)enings 
are cut at the sides from distance to distance, through which 
the brides pass, and tie under the chin. The curtain at the back 
of the crown made long, and very full, is rendered much more 
becoming than any we have ever seen, by the manner in which 
it is separated from the crown, by a row of small puflFs of ribbon, 
A knot of ribbon, intermingled with narrow Gothic blond lac, 
placed on one side of the crown, is its only ornament. The 
ribbons arc always satin, in which material only we must ob- 
serve the bonnet is made. We have seen it of different hues, 
but pink glare de blanc is preferred. 

Velvet Bonnets. — The most novel, and the most remark- 
able for their elegant simplicity, are either of black or full 
colours ; the brim is round, and trimmed in the interior with a 
bouillon of tulle, small and light over the forehead, but large and 
round at the sides, and trimmed in the centre with some small 
cocjues of ribbon of a light colour ; the crown is decorated with 
satin ribbon to correspond, which goes twice round the head, 
and, crossing, forms the brides. Each side of the crown is 
trimmed near the cars with a cockade of ribbon, the ends of 
which fall very low. A wide and moderately deep curtain com- 
pletes the trimming. 

Hats are both of velvet and satin ; a good many are made 
with the brim turned up behind. A favourite style of trimming 
for those composed of velvet, is a bird of p.aradise dyed of the 
colour of the hat. 

Carriage Pelisses. — We have seen some both of satin 
and velvet, made without a ceinture ; they are terminated at 
the waist by three pipings, and fastened by a clasp of either gold 
or fancy jewellery. Several satin pelisses have the border of the 
pelerine, and also the fronts, (jiiilled. We have seen some of 
rich plain silk made to wrap entirely to one side, and fastened 
down by fancy silk buttons to correspond. 

Mantles and Mantelets. — We refer to our first and 
second plates for some of the most distinguished novelties of both 
kinds, and also to our Paris article fur a variety of details 
respecting the others that have appeared. 

II ale-dress Robes. — Some of the most elegant are com- 
posed of Indian foulard, a chesnut-brown ground, spotted in 
striking colours. Foulard de Lyon on a black ground strewed with 
spots of brilliant colours, but shaded. Mcrinos-cachmere em- 
broidered in colours on a white ground, or a jonquil ground, 
figured in small green flowers. Half-dress robes in general have 
the sleeves demi-large, and a great many are made with corsages 
en garbe. This style has an admirable effect on the shape, which 
it shews to very great advantage. In that respect also the 
extraordinary fullness of the skirt may be said to be advantageous 
to the shape, as the profusion of plaits in which it is disposed 
at the bottom of the corsage, makes the waist appear very 

Full Dress Robes. — We have given some of the most 
elegant in our prints. We may also recommend as highly 
worthy of the attention of our fair readers, a robe and tunic, 
both of white pou de Soie ; the tunic was encircled with a wreath 
of roses, embroidered in very delicate colours ; the ground was 



'aho strewed with roses, ^but ][)laced very much apart. We may 
likewise cite as remarkable for their beauty, some white satin 
robes, strewed with bouquets embroidered in coloured silks, and 
velvet in relief ; the intermixture of these two styles has a 
beautiful effect, particularly where the bouquets were of brown 
velvet flowers, and the foliage embroidered in different shades of 
green silk. Velvet robes trimmed with dentille d'or have a 
splendid effect ; one that has been universally admired for its 
elegance is of violet velvet, the corsage is cut low and forms a 
gerbe, the folds of which are marked by gold cord ; the front of 
the corsage has no trimming round the top, but the back and 
shoulders are decorated with a superb mantilla of gold blond. 
Short full sleeves, confined at the bottom by a narrow band edged 
with gold cord, the skirt is trimmed in the drapery style, with a 
most superb flounce of gold blond. 

Ball Dress. — We have reason to believe that it will be this 
year exceedingly magnificent. We have seen some dresses now 
in preparation of grenadine gauze, embroidered round the border 
in a wreath of silver berries, with a foliage of different shades 
of green ; and others, the border of which was wrought in a 
Grecian pattern, in gold. Pearls will also be in p-reat vogue ; 
and beads, which for some seasons past have been laid aside, 
are expected to be very much employed, both for cordelier es to 
attach draperies, and to ornament the centre of knots of ribbon. 
We have heard, but cannot vouch for the truth of the intelli- 
gence, that trimmings of marabous will be adopted for ball 
dresses ; the effect would certainly be at once pretty and tasteful, 
their extreme lightness would render them, in our opinion, 
exceedingly proper to be employed either to loop the flounces at 
the bottom of a robe, or to be disposed en guirlande round it. 
We repeat, however, that we can say nothing positive on the 
subject now, but shall most probably be able to do so next 

Head-presses in Evening Dress. — This month has been 
uncommonly fertile in millinery, all ol an elegant kind, and as 
varied as elegant. We should be puzzled to say which form of 
coiffure is most in request ; we shall, therefore, describe those 
that are most novel and elegant, leaving our fair readers to make 
a choice among them , with a certainty that they cannot fail to 
make a good one. We will begin with the 

Capuche. — The model which we have given in our print of 
this elegant head-dress leaves us little to observe respecting it ; 
it is always composed of velvet or rep velvet, when the latter is 
used, it is generally of light hues, and chefs d'argent are sub- 
stituted for those of gold. We must observe, however, that 
velvet and gold appear to be preferred to rep velvet and silver. 

Victoria Turban. — Such is the name given to one of the 
most elegant turbans that we have ever seen ; it is composed of 
cherry-coloured velvet, that is to say, the front, for the founda- 
tion is of gold net, through which the hair, disposed in a low 
round knot is visible ; the folds of the front, gracefully arranged 
and moderately high, are also enveloped in gold net ; the effect 
of it upon the hair and the velvet, is exceedingly novel and 

Victoria Hat of black or coloured velvet is decidedly the 
prettiest of the numerous family of petilshords towhich it belongs ; 
the brim is raised on one side by a loop of either gold, pearls, 
or fancy jewellery, and the crovi^n is ornamented with white 
ostrich feathers, disposedwith agreat deal of taste and originality ; 
one of the feathers, placed very backwards, droops quite upon 
the shoulder. 

Bonnet a la Jane Grey. — A very elegant cap of iuWe 
diamantin, trimmed with blond lace of a new and excessively 

light pattern, the trimming forms a point in front, and a eoquille 
at the sides, from whence it descends in short, but rather wide, 
lappets. A wreath of volubilis, of velvet, and of striking and 
different colours decorates this singularly pretty cap. 

Mantil de Page. — This elegant evening wrap is at once 
the most novel and the most commodious that has appeared for 
some seasons ; it is a demi-mantle, or rather an excessively 
large pelerine, cut bias, made extremely wide, falling in full 
folds and descending a little below the waist ; the collar is flat 
and of moderate size. Some of these elegant envelopes are of 
blue velvet, lined with ermine, and ornamented with a blue silk 
cordeliere. We have seen them also in black satin, lined with 
rose-colour ; but one, that exceeded all the others in elegance, 
was composed of white satin, ornamented with an embroidery in 
gold, and edged with a knotted fringe of white feathers. We 
should not omit to say that the inside was wadded, quilted, and 
lined with white silk ; the cordeliere vtas of gold. Fashionable 
colours remain the same as last month, but some new and beau- 
tiful shades of grey bordering upon lilac, have appeared, and are 
likely to be in vogue. 


from the most authentic sources. 

All the Parisians are at this moment giving and receiving 
New Year's Gifts. We, the devoted Minister of la mode, must 
not be out of the fashion, so we hasten to present our gifts to 
our fajr readers, trusting that they will be graciously accepted, 
for what offering can be more welcome to a pretty woman than 
the knowledge (which we are about to communicate) of 
enhancing her charms, by decking them in the most novel and 
becoming fashions. Let us see then what are the latest 
modes for 

Pelisses. — Velvet ones are beginning to be very much in 
favour for the public promenades ; and as the weather has for 
the last few days been very cold, several are trimmed with fur. 
Sable, grey squirrel, and Syberian fox, are the most in estima- 
tion, particularly the latter. Among those that are not trimmed 
with fur, we notice several of black satin, lined with plain or 
quadrilled gt-os de Naples. These latter are made with a shawl 
pelerine turning over in such a manner that the outside of the 
pelerine is composed of the lining. This fashion is more shewy 
than elegant. 

Mantles are also in great request. The materials, besides 
those splendid ones that we have already described, are satin 
and velvet. There is more variety in the forms of mantles than 
we had expected. Some are cut in such a manner as to offer 
the double advantage of a cloak and a pelisse. Many have the 
collar cut so as to form a mantelet ; others have it more in the 
pelerine shape, so that it forms a point in the centre of the 
back. Several have the pelerine descending in long ends a la 
refers, the whole length of the front. The trimmings of man- 
tles offer little variety ; they are either embroidered or bordered 
with fur, but the latter mode is most general ; indeed, there 
seems to be quite a mania for furs. 

Muffs are universally adopted, the majority are composed of 
fur, but there is a very respectable minority of velvet, particu- 
larly in promenade dress. The muffs composed of fur are either 
maitre, petit gris, or renard de Siberie. As they are in general 
intended for carriage dress, they are made large, in order to 
keep the bust and the kuees warm ; they are made with two 



sacs in the lining, and have the ends trimmed with glaads and 
torsades. Promenade muffs, on the contrary, are destined only 
to keep the hands warm, and lor that reason, velvet is most in 
request for them ; the ends are trimmed with swans' -down. 

Capotks. — We may cite, among the most novel, those of 
black satin, cither -wadded, or with the material disposed in 
longitudinal folds. Wadded bonnets are lined with coloured 
satin, either rose, blue, or straw. The capotes ptissnes arc lined 
with peluche, which must be either rose, blue, or white ; the 
latter is not very general ; indeed, white peluche next the face 
has a very unbecoming effect. W^e no longer see caputcs trimmed 
with feathers ; flowers or ribbons only are employed, the former 
niu>t be velvet ; they are usually placed to droop upon the brim, 
or, if employed for the crown, they arc placed low on one side. 
A pretty and simple style of trimming, which is elegant without 
pretension, consists of a sprig of velvet foliage, always corres- 
ponding in colour with the bonnet, and inserted in a knot of 
ribbon on one side of the crown, so that it droops upon the 
brim. Capotes in neylige' sxi frequently trimmed in the interior 
of the brim with blond lace, or tulle, disposed in a light style ; 
but those for half-drci-s are always decorated with flowers only. 

Chateaux. — Those of beaver continue to be worn for the 
morning promenade ; several are decorated with a plume ronde, 
placed quite far back close to the ear ; some others have a cord 
and tassels, which goes twice round the crown, and ties at the 
side. Velvet is in great request for hats for the public prome- 
nades, particularly black velvet. Several of these hats have the 
brims lightly turned up, and are trimmed with ostrich feathers. 
Velours epinglp is also very much in vogue, but it is worn in 
colours only, and generally in light hues, as white, straw colour, 
gris d' Eyijpte, ecru, rose, and azui-e blue. 

RoBKS i:n Di:mi Toilette. — In order to see what is most 
decidedly elegant in half-dress and evening wraps, we must 
repair lo the Theatre des Ituliens. We shall recite from the most 
elegant toilettes that have recently appeared there, those that 
struck us as the most worthy of attention. A robe of pea- 
green velvet, trimmed round the front and down the border with 
two rouleaus of swans'-dowu ; the corsage disposed in folds, 
which formed a gcrbe in front, was made half-high, plain at the 
back, and trimmed round the top only with swans' -down. Munche 
a la Polonaise, but of a moderate and very graceful size. This 
robe was very much admired. Another, distinguished for its 
simple elegance, is composed of pearl grey satin, trimmed round 
the border with a flounce of English point lace, except the 
front breadth, on each side of which the flounce was looped by 
a ehoux of ribbon. This style of trimming, which is quite novel, 
had a very good effect. The corsage was a I an 'iquc, and the 
sleeves short and moderately full ; both were trimmed with lace 
to correspond. 

Pelerinks. — We may cite as one of the prettiest fantasies 
of that kind, that have recently appeared at the Italietts. those 
of rose-coloured, white, or blue satin ; thfy are embroidered 
with silk, and encircled by a very narrow plaiting of satin ribbon, 
they are made with short scarf ends, and lightly wadded, so 
that they are at once comfortable and elegant. 

Promenade Robes are now composed of winter materials 
only, all those of autumn being quite laid aside. A very great 
number are of black satin or silk — not the grey or blue blacks 
lately adopted, but that decided raven bl'.ck which was formerly 
used for mourning ; it is now quite fashionable for ladies who 
are not in m')urning, both for the promenades and the theatres. 
It has a particularly good effect by candle light. These dresses 
are made with the corsages full behind, and tight in front. 

Several are trimmed with velvet lappela, and are made a litUs 
open, in the heart-style, on the bosom ; this is necessary, in 
order to allow the collar to be properly placed. The sleeves 
arc of thatfor.-n that we described .'•ome time ago under the nzime 
of a la Jardiniere. The skirts remain as unbecomingly long 
and wide as ever. 

• Ball Dress. — Balls have commenced this season earlier 
than usual, and they have already afforded us some very bril- 
liant toilettes to cite ; but before we enter upon them, we mast 
make a few general observatio is. We see that on; -half i:t least 
of dancing dresses are white, the others are pale pink, or bright 
blue. The materials of robes are tulle, blond, gauzes of dif- 
ferent kinds, and, in particidar, that beautiful material called 
gaze hrillantce. Whatever be the material of the robe, it must 
be worn over a satin slip of the richest texture, which being 
made very wide, sustains the fulness of the robe. We shall novr 
proceed to cite the most remarkable. 

Ensembles of Ball Dresses. — Rohe of white tulle over 
white satin, the corsage made tight to the shape, is ornamented 
in a very novel style with a drapery of the same material, edged 
round the back part with blond lace ; it foi ms a point behind ; 
is looped in the centre of the back and on each shoulder by 
flowers ; the ends, which terminate in points, are crossed upon 
the bosom ; a bouquet of flowers is placed in the centre of thi 
drapery, and the ends fall low on each side. Short full sleeve, 
terminated by a round ruffle of blond lace. The skirt is looped 
down in the tablier style on each side of the front by bouquets 
of flowers, placed at regular distances. Another robe also of 
tulle was embroidered iu spots with white silk, the skirt trimmed 
entirely round by ruche of blonde illusion, was looped high on 
the left side by a bouquet of roses, composed of very pale pink 
velvet, and attached by a knot of white satin ribbon with long 
floating ends. The corsage which opened, en cofur, on the low, 
square, satin one worn underneath, was trimmed with a ruche, 
as was also the short tight sleeves. A light sprig of roses, 
which was inserted in the ruche on each shoulder, drooped over 
the sleeve. A third robe, composed of blond lace, had a corsage 
a la antique, the draperies retained by cameos ; the short tight 
sleeve was nearly covered by blond lace volans. A single and 
very deep one encircled the border of the skirt ; it was put on in 
the di-apery style, being raised considerably at the left knee, 
where it was looped by a bouquet composed of short white 
marabouts, and a single damask rose, encircled by its buds. The 
bouquet is attached by a knot of pale rose satin ribbon, glac/de 
blunc ; the knot forms two coques of the papillon kind, with long 
floating ends ; a cameo is placed in the centre of the knot. 

CoiKKUKKS de Bal are principally of hair, and we observe 
that ringlets, or, as they are termed, Angliases, are more nume- 
rous than bandeaux or Jierlhes. The latter are at present made 
in open plaits, a mode that is much more becoming to the fea- 
tures, than the heavy and compact plaits that have been worn 
up to the present time. We cannot, however, announce this as 
a settled fashion ; all, indeed, that appears to be actually de- 
cided is, that the hair must be dressed low behind. The usual 
mode is a twisted knot, the top of which is detached from the 
bead, which has a great deal of grace and iigiituess iu the ap- 
pearance, and, with the addition of some rows of pearls, forms 
an excessively pretty coiffure. Flowers are also in request. 
Some new wreaths of velvet flowers that have recently appeared 
are of uncommon beauty ; perhaps it would be more proper to 
call them half wreaths, as they do not quite encircle the head ; 
a long light gerbe of flowers, issuing from one end, crowns the 
coiffure in a most grateful style. 





oil, THE 






Behold in him what virtue prizes best, 
Divine contentmeut and the peaceful breast ; 
The calm cool joy by heav'n-born wisdom sought, 
Th' eternal prospect and high reach of thought ; 
Th' expanding heart, enlarg'd for all mankind, 
The mild affection, and the wish refined ; 
The generous love which all the bosom fills, 
And vivid spirit unsubdued by ills ; 
The open aspect, the truth beaming eye. 
Not scorniug earth, yet darting to the sky ; 
Fame's fairest wreaths, in honest triumph worn, 
And palms gained nobly, or refused with scorn. 


The Earl of Granville has for some years filled one of the 
highest and most honourable offices which can be conferred by 
sovereign upon subject— that of Ambassador to the next great 
nation to our own, France ; the duties of which his Lordship 
has performed with credit to himself, personally, and to the 
satisfaction of the country at large. The office is a difficult 
and responsible one ; the task of representing the Sovereign in 
a. foreign Court is by no means easy, for it is not merely the 
state and dignity of the British Crown that is to be maintained, 
but the interests of the nation are also to be regarded, and in 
times like the present, when England is viewed with so much 
jealousy by every foreign power, our allies included, the greatest 
care and watchfulness, the clearest intellect, and the finest 
business talent are required in our ambassadors ; and, consi- 
dering the way in which the Earl of Granville has fulfilled 
his important duties at the French Court, we have no hesita- 
tion in ranking him first among the British diplomatists ; and 
we have every reason to believe that he is so considered in the 
highest quarter. 

The Earl of Granville is a member of the Sutherland 
family, who trace their lineage through a long and illustrious 
hne of ancestors, to an Anglo-Saxon origin ; some saying that 
the founder of the family was Sir Allan Gower, of Sitten- 
ham, in Yorkshire, and High Sheriff of that county at the period 
of the Conquest ; whilst others represent that William Fitz- 
Guyer, of Sittenham, who was charged with a mark for his 
lands in the Sheriffs' accounts of 1167, was their ancestor. 
Be this as it may, we pass onward to the close of the thirteenth 
century, when the pedigree emerges from its obscurity. We 
then find that among the Knights and persons of note sum- 
moned to be at Carlisle with horse and arms on the Feast of the 
Nativity of St. John the Baptist, to march against the Scots, 
was Sir John Gower. And in the following year we find tlie 
same Sir John summoned for a similar purpose to Berwick. 
Vol. XV. 

From this Sir John the lineage proceeds in the manner 
stated by us in our genealogical account of the Sutherland 
family (then Stafford) to Granville, second Earl Gower, 
who married fii-st, in 1774, Elizabeth, daughter of Nicholas 
Fazakerley, Esq., of Prescot, in the county of Lancashire, 
by whom he had no surviving issue. Secondly, his Lordship 
married (l748) the Lady Louisa Egerton, daughter of 
Scroope, first I>uke of Bridgewater, by whom he had, 
besides other children, the late Marquis of Stafford, whose 
eldest son is the present Duke of Sutherland. Thirdly, his 
Lordship married, in the year 1768, the Lady Susannah 
Stewart, daughter of John, sixth Earl of Galloway, by 
whom he had the following family : — 

1. Granville Leveson Gower, the present EarlGUAN- 


2. Georgiana Augusta, married in November, 1797, to 
the Hon. W. Eliot, now Earl of. St. Germain's, and died 
March 24, 1806. 

3. Charlotte Sophia, married in November, 1797, to 
the late Duke of Bea'ufort. 

4. Susan, married July 31, 1794, to Dudley, first Earl of 

Eari Gower filled several high offices in the State ; namely,. 
Lord Privy Seal, Lord Chamberlain, and Lord President of the 
Council. He was also a Knight of the Garter, and for his 
services was rewarded with a Marquisite, having been created 
Marquis of Stafford, on the 26th of February, 1786. His 
Lordship died on the 26th of October, 1803. 

Granville Leveson Gower, the present. Earl Gran- 
ville, was born on the 12th of October, 1793. The official 
duties of his noble parent caught his attention at an early age, 
and he displayed great aptitude for business, and a desire to 
emulate the Marquis. As he advanced in life, his abilities were 
more clearly manifested, and his services were required by the 
Ministers of the Crown. His hours of leisure were devoted to 
the cultivation of the domestic duties, and having beheld with 
enamoured eyes, the charms and virtues of Henrietta 
Elizabeth, daughter of William, fifth Duke of Devon- 
shire, he offered his heart and fortune at her feet, proud and. 
pleased to be allowed to kneel at so bright a shrine. 

A Goddess ! but a Goddess who descends 

To make her human mate immortal with her love ! 

Oh ! fair in that bright hour, when Fortune smiles, , 

And the fond world is kind, and all is gay ; 

And she the gayest, fondest of the throng ; 

Playful and wild, happy and delicate i 

In the world's sunny garden of all joyancQ 

A dazzling butterfly, an airy fawn ! 

A tiling to be indulged, and lightly chased .^ 

Caught, but not captured ; ransomed with a kiss ! > 

Her word, her glance, a law ; and her caprice 

Reason complete ; but fairer, fairer still. 

When the dark clouds spread o'er our shining life. 

In sickness, in sorrow, and in toil. 

When by the suffering couch she sweetly tends, 

With step that yields no sound, and eye that claims no sleeg ;. 

Deeming devotion duty. 



The marriafrc of thc^c cmlnrnt pcrsonnpcs took place on the 
24th of December, isn't, and they have now the happiness to 
be surroiimlcd with a numerous and amiable family. 

1. Granvii.i.k Gicouge, horn May 11, 1815. 

2. GuANViM.i; William, bom Scprcmbcr 28, 1816. 

3. Edward Frederick, born May 3, 1819. 

4. Susan Georgiana. 

5. Gi:orgiana Charlotte. 

His Lord-hip was created Viscount Granville, of Stone 
Park, in the county of StiitTord, in July, 182.'? ; and in 1S30 he 
was elevated to an Eai-ldom by the title of Earl Granville, 
since which time his Lordship has continued to be the repre- 
sentative of the British Crown at the Court of France. 

His Lordship's arms arc quarterly ; first and fourth, bany 
of eight, ar. and gu., over all a cross flory, sa. for Gower ; 
second and tliird, az., three laurel leaves erect or. for Leveson. 
Crest : a wolf passant ar., collared and lined or. Supporters : 
Two wolves ar., collared and lined or., pendant from the collar 
an escocheon ar., charged with a clarion or organ rest, 5a. 
Motto : " Frangas non fiectas.'^ His Lordship's seat is Stone 
Park, StafTordshirc. 

The entertainments given by Lady Granville in Paris are 
highly spoken of for their magnificence and the truly British 
spirit wliich pervades them. Her Ladyship has secured the 
good opinion of the t'lile of French society by her gracious yet 
dignified manner. Indeed, it is scarcely possible for the cha- 
racter of the British Court to be better maintained in France 
than it is by the heads of the noble family to which this article 
■is devoted. 

By Mrs. E. H. Foster. 


-For him 

■ The beauty of the summer rose is past, 
Like hope's first dream, too l)cautiful to last, 
The glory of the lily has departed 
And, drooping like young beauty broken-hearted, 
Has sunk into the dust ; the blue bell's deep 
Dark azure eye has languish'd into sleep. 
And e'en the later l>eauties, one by one, 
Like rainbow colours, have decayed and gone. 
And nature, reft of all her queenly state, 
Sits like a widow, lone and desolate. 
But thou, sweet flower, with pendant coral bells, 
Where fancy deems some hidden treasure dwells. 
With leaf so small that scarce the wild bee's wing 
Would halt its course on thee its form to fling. 
Though its bright emerald hue might well invite 
A fairy's footsteps on thee to alight ; 
Thy graceful stalk, so delicately fine, 
Seems form'd metiiinks for some more glowing clime, 
And yet unshclter'd thy fair gentle form 
Braves the rude blast, and smiles upon the storm. 
I gaze on thee with pleasure, for thou art 
To me the emblem of the faithful heart. 
What tho' thou shincst not in costly bowers 
Or claimcst rivalship with fairer flowers ? 
Yet Ihmt, when all are gone, shin' st brightly still, 
Dauntless as virtue in tlic hour of ill ; 
Nor doth the slatily oak more loud proclaim 
Thy maker's honour, than thy fragile frame. 
Sriyhion, Nov. 27, 1837. 

This young heart beat with its first wild passion, 
That pure feeling life only once may know." 

..-^^— L. £• L. 

" Why arc yon so sad, Madelon ?" 

" Sad 1 No, I am not sad. What cause have I for sadness ?" 

" You left the dance suddenly, and the company are inquiring 
for you." 

" I will return with you. I did not feel well— the heat of 
the room caused inc to retire, but I will return with you to the 

The speakers were two young girls, one of whom was just 
upon the verge of womanhood, a fair and graceful being, with a 
heart susceptible of the teudercst emotions. That heart had on 
that night been first awakened to love. In the gay companions 
of the dance Madelon had looked with admiration upon the son 
of a banker, and he, enchanted by the spells which her beauty 
threw around, wliispered sweet words in her fascinated car, till 
overpowered by the new delight, she had retired to rcfiect upon 
it, and to endeavour to regain composure. 

She left the yet glad dance. 
O'er those gentle thoughts to brood, 
That haunt a girl's first hour 
Of love-touched solitude : 
Music's sweet and distant sound 
Came floating on the air. 
From the banquet-room it told 
Of the joyful dancers there, 
But she — the loveliest one — 
Had left the festal scene, 
To dream on what might be. 
To muse on what had been : 
To think on love's soft words, 
Her car had drunk that night, 
M'hile her he.irt beat echo-like. 
And her cheek burnt ruby bright. 

She had remained apart from the dancers, and alone for 
nearly an hour, when her absence was noticed, and her sister 
Genevieve was sent in quest of her, when the enrapt one was 
found seated at the casemc\it of her chamber, looking out upon 
the starry sky, so clearly, deeply, beautifully blue, in entranced 
delight, when the conversation occurred as above described. 

Madelon returned with her sister to the saloon, and again 
was Ferdinand St. Marc at her side, and again was the incense 
of the heart's afl'ection ofl'ered at her beauty's shrine. The lover 
proffered, in his rapture, heart, fortune, soul ; and the ingenuous 
girl, pleased with the devotion of her lover, accepted his over- 
ture's, and with a look told him that he was beloved. 

There is something inexpressibly beautiful in the first 
awakening of love in a generous heart : the feeling by which 
that heart is pervaded partakes of the celestial character, it is 
for the time elevated above humanity, it reposes in a heaven of 
its own creation, and all its thoughts arc pure and virtuous and 
holy ; there is no selfishness in first love, it cares not for itself, 
its regard is for the object beloved, it believes that it will be 
gifted with superior happiness to what is found in the worid, it 
sets for itself tasks the most generous and good, it looks 
forward to bliss— pure, celestial bliss— assured of its power to 
make the worid a paradise, and itself and the object beloved 
the preaidiug spirits therein. Such is first love— beautiful first 



love I — when the heart is warm aud young, all truth, and inno- 
cence, and virtue. O I that we could keep the heart in this 
purity and innocence, to make this world the very heaven it is 
pictured there. But we are heirs to the infirmities of humanity, 
and our sorrows tread upon tlie heels of our joys. We make 
virtuous resolutions, and find how vain is human resolution ; 
we see the way and know the road to happiness, but our pas- 
sions, fearful ministers, draw us away, and with every wish and 
desire to progress in virtue and peace and bliss, we turn away 
and fall to wretchedness and despair. 

And Madelon, on the first awakening of love's delightful 
dream, was happy — none so blest as she. Generous and good 
as was her own nature, she did not entertain a thought of the 
unworthiness of others, and she gave up her whole good and 
innocent heart to one to whom female conquests were fami- 
liar, and who courted her only for the sake of adding to his 

Ferdinand St. Marc became a frequent visitor at the house 
of Madelon's parents, and as each day seemed to bring out 
fresh traits of merit in his character, so each day did the affec- 
tion of Madelon increase. And she at length loved him with 
a woman's wild idolatry, with that deep deathless passion, 
" life only once may know." For the time Madelon lived in a 
world of bliss ; she beheld him whom she adored, him whom of 
all others in the world she most regarded, him whose presence 
gave peace and joy and happiness to her young heart, and in 
whose absence her life was a blank, constantly near her ; and 
while passion glanced from his large black eyes, the words of 
eternal love came, like sweet music, from his lips, to the ears 
of the gentle maid. 

But as the bright summer time passed away, so passed the 
love of Ferdinand St. Marc ; the leaves and the flowers de- 
cayed, and with them perished the aflFections of him who had 
ensnared the heart of Madelon. The young and fragile thing 
was left alone to sorrow, and her tears. " A woman can but 
weep." Ferdinand was a gay thoughtless feUow, a spendthrift 
and gambler ; his disposition was good, but his passions mas- 
tered him ; he constantly made virtuous resolutions, and as 
firequently broke them. When he first beheld Madelon, he 
thought it possible that he could love her, and remain attached 
to her alone, for ever. But the novelty of the attachment being 
gone, the heart of the lover took wing ; and at length the dis- 
covery was made by Madelon that he was offering his addresses 
to another. 

The discovery came like a thunderbolt upon the heart of 
Madelon ; in the full tide of her happiness she was dashed down 
to utter misery ; from the bliss of knowing that she was beloved, 
she fell to the wretchedness and despair of desertion by the one 
beloved. Who can paint the bitter, wasting agony the young 
heart feels, when having been thus lured to the highest pin- 
nacle of bliss, it is rudely cast into dust ? We talk of break- 
ing hearts, but hearts does not suddenly break ; ages of pain, 
of withering pain, roll o'er the victim's head, ere the heart- 
strings yield : years of misery are experienced in a day ; the 
day thoughts are troixbled, and the dreams of the night are 
fraught with horrid fancies. There are no words to tell this 
misery of the heart, — of the heart of poor, weak, fragile 
woman ; — woman, tenderest of earth's creatures, created for 
the gentlest offices of life, — for joy, and peace, and happiness. 
Woman endui-es this wretchedness, and the world passes her 
by, careless and heedles3 of her sufferings, which she hides 
while the power of concealment lasts ; torturing herself to avoid 
the sneers of the unfeeji»g, until the last hour of suffering 

comes, and the heart breaks, and the gentle victim lies at 
peace, under the green turf, with the myriad dead. 

And poor Madelon was deserted. They tried to comfort her. 
But what consolation could the kind voices of others afford ? 
There was one who could have restored her to herself again, 
but he was far away, and all other voices failed to bring a smile 
upon her white cheek. Days* weeks, passed on, and Madelon s. 
grew weaker and paler every day ; friends gathered round her, 
and every artifice was tried to recover her, but in vain ; the 
bolt had struck deep into her heart, and it seemed that she 
would awaken to happiness again only where "the hearts of 
all are known, and faithful love is blest." 

And they said that Madelon was dying. The spring time 
had come again, and the birds sang sweet melodies in the jessa- 
mine boughs under her chamber window, and the incense of 
sweet flowers was breeze-wafted into the room, and the sunlight 
conspired to make all glad, save Madelon. Nor birds, nor 
flowers, nor sunlight revived her drooping heart. . And many 
tears were shed for Madelon, but she was composed and re- 
signed ; she felt that there was one living being in the world 
who could save her from an early grave, but she knew that him 
she would never see again ; one word might restore her, — but 
she knew that that word could not be spoken, and she was re- 
signed to her fate. 

'Tis ever thus, 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss. 
With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this ; 
One moment round about us their " angel lightnings" play. 
Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath passed i>. 
It was a bright and beautiful morning when Madelon sat in ;. 
the midst of her family ,'calmly awaiting the hour of dissolution ; , 
when she was observed to start wildly, and her father rushed 
in alarm towards her ; but she made a sign for him to be silent, 
and bent her head forward, as if eagerly listening. But nothing 
was heard save the sighing of the breeze through the tendrils of 
the jessamine, which overhung the chamber window, and Madelon 
passed her hand in disappointment over her brow, and resumed 
her previous attitude. " It was a wild and silly fancy, father,"' 
she exclaimed, " I was foolish to entertain the thought for a , 

A pause ensued. It was broken by a voice, heard by all 
present, enquiring for Madelon's father. The dying girl ; 
screamed with delight, and rvishing towards the window, fcU 
fainting before she could reach it. 

It was Ferdinand's voice ! The father proceeded to meet him. 
He had awakened to a sense of his errors, and, his heart revert- 
ing to the gentle Madelon, he had come to supplicate forgive- 
ness, and to ask her to become his bride. The father of Madelon 
joyfully welcomed the penitent, and instantly accompanied him ,, 
to Madelon's chamber. But, alas ! there she lay upon the 
ground, pale, and to all appearance, lifeless ; while every exer- 
tion was being made to effect her recovery. Those exertions 
were not made in vain. The maiden opened her clear blue 
eyes, and glanced inquii-ingly at all those who stood around 
her. Ferdinand had been purposely kept back. " 'Twas but 
a dream, then 1" she murmured, " Too happy for reality." 

" Say it was not a dream, dear Madelon ?" enquired her 
sister, tenderly. 

" Do not — do not deceive me," cried the girl, catching 
eagerly at her sister's words, " do not deceive me — is it he ? — 
is he here ? — keep me no longer in suspense ? — am I to live or. 
die .'" 

" Madelon I" 



" Ah !*' shrieked the maiden, " 'tis no delusion : it is his 
voire ! — ho is licrc !" 

" Madelon, dearest Madclon !" exclaimed the lover. 

The next moment Matlclim was loci<cd in Ferdinand's arms. 

And ere the bright summer ended, a gay marriage proces- 
sion was beheld approaching the little village church, and 
Madclon, restored to health and happiness, became the l)ridc of 
her heart's hrst-and only love. Lauua. Pkrcv. 


'Old Skinflint's dead ! Reader, don't laugh, 
But gravely scan his epitaph ! 
He's left the things of time and sense — 
His bonds, and mortgages, and rents ; 
. And (without discount, too) has paid 
The debt of nature, lougdolay'd. 

Doubt as you will, I'm bold to say — 
He always tt«/A-'d in wisdom's way, 
(When chancing in tliat path aside), 
Because he was too mean to ride. 

IJis constant faith is clearly shown 
■By this — he let good works nlonc. 
Daily he rose, resolving fresh, 
To wound and mortify the flcbh ; 
And oft for breakfast would liet.akc 
A mouldy crust, or heavy caUe. 
And as for drinking, never fip 
Brought liquor for his thirsty lip ! 

Whether he broke, from day to day, 
The ten commandments, I cannot say ; 
But as he kept all else, 'tis true 
That he most likely kep( them too. 

Loves of the Rock-doves. — A love-scene among the 
'rocks is really an interesting sight. Concealed in a crevice 
or behind a projecting cliff, you see a ])igeon alight beside you, 
and stand quietly for some time, when tiie whistling of pinions 
is heard, and the male-bird shoots past like an arrow, and is 
already beside his mate. Scarcely has he made a rapid survey 
■of the place, when directing her attention to the only beau- 
tiful object which he sees, he approaches her, erecting his 
head, swelling out his breast by inflating his crop, ami spread- 
ing his tail, at the same time littering the well-known coo-roo-mo, 
the soft and somewhat mournful sounds of which echo among the 
cliffs. The female, shy and timorous, sits close to the rock, 
shifting her position a little as the male advances, and some- 
times stretching out her neck as if to repel him hy blows. The 
male continues his strutting and cooing, until the female, inad- 
vertently coming upon the edire of the shelf, flics off to the dark 
recesses of the neighbouring cave, where she has scarcely 
alighted when her lover is again by her side. 

CuRF. FOR A DiscoNTF.NTED Son-in-La w.— A noble Lord 
being continually complaining to his wife's father of her violent 
and improper conduct, " Never mind," replied the old gentle- 
man, "bear it patiently, and I'll alter my will and cut her off," 
fter this no mare complaints were heard. 


OR, beauty's TRIUMI'Il. 

When tranced in beauty's witching smile, 

That sweetly soothes but to betray, 
Docs not the soft enchantment wile 

Thy heart away ?" — J. MALCOLM. 

" Accomplishment," says a talented writer, " is a foolish 
custom, and tends to mislead the superficial." It raises an 
idea of completeness and perfection, which is as ludicrously 
false in the particular assumption as it is too apt to be in the 
effect. It is like confounding the body of the wine with the 
colour of it. By accomplishments, we lead people to suppose 
that they are finished : and so they may be in a manufacturing 
sense, but not in the sculptor's or the philosopher's. By 
accomplishment we properly mean embellishment. The embel- 
lishment may be small or great, a profit or a deterioration ; for 
superficial accomplishment over-valued by the possessor is 
unpleasant to all parties, but a genuine nature, capable of the 
finest accomplishmonts, or when incapable of some, carries with 
it the privilege of being its own embellishment, of being at (nice 
the substance and the ornament. When we read of a delight- 
ful womKn we do not inquire whether' she drew or played : wc 
are content with her being delightful. It is fine to hear a cor- 
dial voice speaking to us by means of the other fineness of 
melody. It is fine to imagine beauty painting beauty, reflect- 
ing and doubling itself, living in a world worthy of it, and put- 
ting down for other people's eyes the lasting images of lights 
and shadows, the charm of which we find it diflicult to express. 
But accomplishments themselves, de?ightful as they are, are 
but occupied in impressing us with a sense of something more 
delightful — the hidden soul, and mystery of the heart. There 
are some who think accomplishments constitute everything 
needful in the character of a woman, unconscious of the grace 
beyond the reach of art, and to this class of beings did Percy 
Atherley, a young denizen of fashion's world, belong. The 
whole of his life had been passed in the scenes of the Metro- 
polis, and the most artificial of them. One of his ancestors, 
not very remote, had amassed great wcjilth by speculations in 
merchandize, for he belonged to the plebeian class, and his 
successors strove to make up for what their ancestor was defi- 
cient in, by his extreme exclusivcness of opinion and habits. 
Percy, as a boy, was treated with all the formality of a little 
monarch : the slightest breach of etiquette on the part of those 
around him was sure to awaken the profoundest paternal indig- 
nation. He had tutors in every branch of polite education, was 
instructed in many languages, living and dead, and learned also 
to treat with contempt every living being who happened not to 
he quite as wise as himself. 

Percy Atherley, at the age of one-and-twcnty, came into the 
possession of his estates : he was then a cold, formal, living 
machine : the early part of his day was spent in his study, and 
the evening at his club, or at some one of the few exclusive 
circles to which his visits were restricted. ITierc were two 
sisters, whose family frequented the same houses — Rose and 
Emily Clarendon. Their father. Sir Roger Clarendon, was a 
country baronet, who having been elected a member for a 
borough in Gloucestershire, to which he had been a great bene- 
factor, took up his residence in London during the session, and 
being fond of his children, he delighted in taking them into 
society. Emily, the eldest, was the father's pet ; no paius had 



been spared to make her an attractive girl. She was finely 
formed, but her face, though it had a rather pleasing expres- 
sion at times, could not be accounted handsome, and very fre- 
queutly it was pervaded by such a self-satisfied air as to be dis- 
agreeable to many. Emily Clarendon was naturally of an open 
and ingenuous disposition, but education had spoiled her. 
Poor Sir Roger, in his endeavour to make his idol " the ob- 
served of all observers," the delight of all into whose society 
she might be thrown, so overloaded her with accomplishments 
that the natural good sense of the girl broke down under them, 
and instead of exciting admiration always, Emily not unfre- 
quently awakened unpleasant feelings by her pride and self- 

Rose Clarendon, on the other hand, had been quite neglected. 
She had been allowed to grow up in all her natural wildness. 
She was not so finely formed as her elder sister : her figure was 
considerably shorter, yet well proportioned : but beauty had set 
its seal upon her countenance. In her girlhood she had been a 
wild unthinking romp, heedless of the remonstrances of her 
wiser and more staid sister, she delighted in the most noisy 
and spirited pastimes. Books she detested, and although by 
dint of hard lecturing a trifling progress was made in the way 
of accomplishment, and a slight approach to graceful manner, 
yet, aevertlieless, when the sisters came out, there was a strik- 
ing contrast in their demeanour and conversation. Emily was 
staid and formal ; Rose was lovely, laughing, and, if not abso- 
lutely rude, yet went so close to the boundary line of propriety 
that another step would have made her lialjle to censure. 

Atherley was struck by the graceful and elegant Emily, who, 
perceiving his attentions, did not discourage them, but rather 
tempted him by the display of her accomplishments to oifer his 
addresses. Atherley was, however, a timid man : he beheld 
Emily Clarendon a highly talented and agreeable woman, sur- 
roundedby men of wealth and pretensions, all of whom were eager 
to catch her smile ; and understanding none of the little arts 
which men use in the pursuit of love, felt doubtful of his being 
able to win her regard. "Society" as it is, is purely artifi- 
cial, and Percy Atherley had been brought up only in this 
" society." Struggles and strifes, says a modern novelist with 
much truth, are created by our artificial modes of life, and most 
men, and all women, hold one another in fetters. It is the 
boast of Englishmen that there are no privileged orders, and 
that the career of ambition is open to all. Such is our theore- 
tical constitution ; but look at our practice, and all is contra- 
dicted. Never was such a tyranny as that exercised by all 
classes over one another. The very equality of their legal 
rights makes them eager to surround themselves with a wall of 
ceremonies and interdictions which cause our philosophers to 
laugh in their closets, but which, nevertheless, even they obey 
the moment they come into the world. It is the fashion to 
attribute this to the aristocracy alone. That is not so. There 
is fashion every where, and as many shades of it as divisions in 
the social ranks. Sir Roger Clarendon descended from a noble 
family who carried their pedigree up to the- Conquest, disliked 
the attentions paid by the successor of a trader to his daugh- 
ter, and frequently as the subject was brought under considera- 
tion in the family circle. Rose Clarendon, would, with her 
wonitsd artlessness and good humour, combat her father's scru- 
ples, whUe Emily, whose notions were as exclusive as Sir 
Roger's, and who would, had Percy Atherley been Rosa's lover 
instead of her own, been his stern opponent, sat speechless, and 
awaited patiently the result of the family deliberations. 

At length Percy Atherley was received as the lover of Emily, 

and for some weeks he was the most happy and delighted of 
men. For three months, indeed, Emily Clarendon continued to 
charm him by the display of her varietl accomplishments. He 
remained spcU-bound, and thouglit that there existed not a 
woman upon the earth half so amiable and interesting. He 
believed himself to be the happiest of men. 

At the expiration of the London season, Atherley went into 
Gloucestershire with the Clarendons, not only with the prospect 
of deriving pleasure from the baronet's shooting excursions, but 
also to assist him in a coming election, the representation of 
the borough being about to be contested. Atherley, who had 
never seen more of the country than a short stay at Brighton 
during the sojourn of the Court thei-e permitted, was much 
pleased when, for the first time in his life, he looked upon the 
beautiful face of nature, although he shrunk back, with a feeling 
approaching to fear, from the peasantry, whose voices ever 
most rudely shouted praises as Sir Roger passed them. The 
baronet, who was much amused by the trepidation of his young 
friend on the first day of their walking out among the peasan- 
try, recounted their adventures over the dinner table. Emily 
blamed her father for taking her lover among the " CMiaille ;'" 
but Rose, her bright sunny countenance beaming with good 
nature, entered at once into the history of the villagers, and 
gave such graphic sketches of them, their habits, and respectful 
manners to their superiors, that Atherley expressed himself 
sorry that he had formed so bad an opinion of them, and laughed 
at his idle fears. 

The first week in their rustic retirement passed agreeably 
enough. Although Emily had brought no music with her, the 
old pieces sufficed for a week, but then they became wearisome. 
Then Emily had brought no drawings, for she had been desi- 
rous of copying from nature ; but the weather was wet, and so 
thickly did the rain patter upon the windows that it was idle to 
think even of copying the larches, chesnuts, or oaks which the 
eye could command from the rooms, to say nothing of the 
smaller trees and shrubs. In short, before the expiration of a 
fortnight Atherley began to feel uncommonly dull, for Emily 
could not converse : she was simply an accomplished woman. 
She had been plentifully gifted with foreign aid, but her natu- 
ral gifts had been uncultivated, and in mind she was but a child. 
Atherley had been about a month in the country when he 
was compelled one day to go out shooting alone. Sir Roger 
being engaged with his election business. In endeavouring to 
leap over a slight hedge to obtain some birds he had shot, 
Atherley fell, and so heavily as to fracture one of his legs. He 
remained upon the ground for a considerable time before assist- 
ance came, and he was quite unable to move. Some labourers 
passing to their occupation, at length heard his cries, and 
speedily they conveyed him to a neighbouring cottage, where 
they went for the surgeon of the village. The first being whom 
he saw in the cottage was Rose Clarendon, and much pleased 
was he to recognise a friend in his state of suffering. Rose 
was alarmed by his appearance, and immediately desiring that 
every attention should be paid to him, bade him remain com- 
posed while she went for her father. 

Atherley was surprised at the discovery of Rose in the pea- 
sant's cottage, and his curiosity being excited to know the 
cause of her being there, he inquired of the old woman (whom 
only he saw there) if she knew whom the lady was who had 
just left them ? — " Know her !" exclaimed the woman : " bless 
her dear heart, that I do. Have I not cause to know her ? 
Has she not brought health and happiness into this abode of 
misery ? and heaven will bless her for it. The prayers of the 



fatherleis children are breathed night and morning for her 
prosperity here ami hereafter." 

" Exjilniu yourself, my frood woman," said Atherlcy. 

" O, sir, my heart is very full, und I may not bo able to state 
things so clearly as I mii;ht else. I had a son, sir, with three 
children. His wife died six months ago, and last week, sir, the 
Almighty took my dear boy to its mercy I I had the three 
ehildren, whom he had laboured to obtain food for, left, with 
no other friend in the world but me, to care for them ; and 1 am 
eighty-three years old, sir, and long since past work. Wc 
should have died, we should have perished of starvation, we 
should have been turned out of our little home (for we have a 
cruel landlord, sir,) to die in the highway ; but tl>is angel in the 
form of woman came to us — heaven directed, surely! — gave us 
meat, and drink, and clothing ; has found employment for the 
orphans, and has comforted my old heart ; for she says that 
while the boys ore virtuous she will not forsake them ; and I 
know what my son was, and I know that his children will 
never stray from the paths of righteousness 1" 

The old woman, overpowered by her emotion, turned her 
head away to hide her tears, and appeared to be busying her- 
self with domestic matters. At this moment the surgeon 
arrived, who immediately repaired the broken limb, and then 
assisted in placing Atherley npon a low vehicle, when he was 
immediately taken to Clarendon Hall. 

On the following day it was found that symptoms of fever 
had appeared, which towards night increased, and further 
advice was sought. Atherley was then pronounced to be in a 
highly dangerous state, and requiring the greatest possible 
attention. Emily was alarmed by the situation of her lover, 
whose chamber she visited but once ; and then she was so 
frightened by his pale looks that she could not summon sufR- 
cient courage to venture there again ; and besides, she was 
apprehensive of the fever being infectious, and although she 
fancied that she loved him, she did not think it prudent to 
place her own health in danger. She desired the servants to 
pay all possible attention to him, but kept out of the way 

" My dear Emily," said Rose to her sister, " you have not 
been near your poor lover these two days. Don't you know 
■what people who have been in real earnest love say, that the 
sight of an object beloved is of more service in any disorder, 
than the doctor's medicine ?" 

"He receives every attention," was the reply of Emily. 

" Every attention !" responded Rose, " Now, my dear sister, 
1 know that you are much wiser than I am, but I do really 
believe that Mr. Atherley would recover sooner if he was not 
left entirely to the care of strangers. 

" What a ridicidous idea," exclaimed Emily, and turning 
away from her sister, she sat down to write to London, about a 
necklace which had not been sent at the appointed time, and an 
order for the music of the new opera which had been produced. 

" Well, sister," said Rose, after endeavouring to amuse 
herself by counting the trees that skirted the lawn, "it's no 
use talking ; 1 am sure Mr. Atherley must be very unhappy in 
that great desolate chamber, with nobody but old Mrs. Nicely, 
the nurse, to keep him company ; and so, if you do not choose 
to go and sit with him, 1 will." 

" Ah, do, that's a dear," said Emily, " if you are not afraid 
of the infection. There, take this book ; we were reading it 
together on the evening before his accident, when he said he 
should like to hear the end of it. You can read it to him, and — 
and tell him I sincerely hope that he is better." 

Rose took the book, and straightway proceeded to the sick 
chamber. She entered cautiously, lest he might be sleeping, 
which was the case ; and motioning to the nurse not to speak, 
she proceeded to the bed>ide where Atherley lay, pale as death, 
and his breathing scarcely audible. The fever had entirely left 
him, and he remained weak as an infant, with bloodless cheeks, 
and pale white lips compressed. Rose started back the moment 
her eyes fell upon his countenance, so death-like, but the shock 
pasfiing, she felt ashamed of her childish fear, and remained 
gazing upon Athcrlcy's face, coutemplatinsr an object so closely 
verging upon death, but which might hereafter be the pride and 
delight of many ; spreading joy and pleasure around him. 

Thus was Rose Clarendon occupied when the sleeper awoke. 
He murmured — " This is kind, very kind. But where i* 
Emily .'" 

I'he generous sister readily formed an excuse for her absence, 
and said that she had been sent with Emily's kindest wishes, to 
sit by, and to read to him, while she herself was occupied by 
pressing domestic matters. Atherley expressed his gratitude to 
both sisters, the one who had thought of him tenderly in his 
illness, and the other who had so readily complied with her 
desire ; and Rose remained in the sick chamber till the hour of 
dinner. And the next day she came again, and read and con- 
versed with Atherley. The third day Emily ventured into the 
room, and after remaining a short time, excused herself on the 
ground of Sir Roger being desirous that she would ride out with 
him, Atherley's eyes rested upon her until she was gone, and 
Rose beheld tears trembling in those once bright, but now lus- 
treless orbs, and she immediately said — " You know, Mr. 
Atherley, what a favourite Emily is ; and how delighted our 
father is when she accompanies him in his morning rides." 

" Yes, yes," murmured Atherley, and reclined his head 
again upon his pillow, as if he would avoid further conver- 

For six weeks was Atherley confined to his chamber, and so 
long was Rose Clarendon in attendance upon him, assisting the 
old nurse in administering his medicines, and enlivening the dull 
hours either by reading or cheerful conversation. Emily came 
but seldom, and then remained but a short time. 

" I am afraid," said Atherley, one day, when Emily had 
left him, " that your sister's inclination does not lead her 

" My dear Mr. Atherley," was the immediate reply of Rose, 
" your fear is quite groundless, I assure you. Emily, you know, 
is so universal a favourite, that she cannot call one half-hour 
in the day her own, and she knows that while / am near you, 
you receive all the attention which her own good heart could 

" You are very good — very," said Atherley, looking up into 
the sunny face of Rose. 

Soon after the perfect recovery of the invalid, the family- 
returned to town. But Atherley's manner was changed ; he 
w-as by no means so frequent a visitor at the house of Sir Roger 
as he had been ; this drew upon him the frowns of Emily ; she 
complained of his neglect ; he retaliated by charging her with 
unkindness ; she replied in warmer terms ; he was silent. In 
a few days the newspapers announced that the intended marriage 
between a wealthy gentleman of retired habits, and the eldest 
daughter of a Gloucestershire baronet, was off, by mutual 

Emily was unhappy for a week ; after that she was herself 
again, and more delighted by the sweet wordu of the many who 
crowded around her than by the pruisc of the one who had loved 



her with the deep and full sincerity of nn open and ingenuous 
heart. Rose alone remained unhappy. She had felt all a sister's 
aflfectionfor Percy Atherley, and, as she had thought, nothing 
more than sisterly affection ; hut now she found that her young 
•wild heart had been given up entirely to love. 

The name of Atherley was not mentioned in the family for 
some time ; but afterwards Emily would laugh at what she 
called her foolish attachment to a bookworm. Rose delighted 
in hearing his name mentioned, though she knew too well that 
the feelings associated with that adored name could not be 
gratified ; the hopes never fulfilled. 

It happened that Rose Clarendon accompanied some friends 
to a ball one night, where Atherley had also gone, and here the 
secrets of their hearts were made known to each other. The 
colouring at the unexpected entrance of a favoured object, we 
are told, nay, at the mere sound of his name, has disclosed a 
secret in a moment, which has long been kept. How the secret 
was disclosed in this particular instance, we are not able to 
tell ; it must remain a mystery. But on the following morning 
Percy Atherley was seen in the street at a much earlier hour 
than ever he had been seen before, and his horse was urged to 
much more than ordinary swiftness. His destination was Sir 
Roger Clarendon's house. 

" I am come, my dear Sir Roger," said Mr. Atherley, " to 
break to you an affair of extreme delicacy ; and, to meet any 
objection on the score of my own fickleness, if you please to 
accept my offer we will instantly proceed to our solicitors, and 
arrange matters before dinner. What do you say ?" 

" Really, Mr. Atherley, I shall be better able to give an 
opinion when you inform me what the subject is," was the 
amazed Sir Roger's reply. 

" O, I beg ten thousand pardons — I forgot — you see — Sir 
Roger — my impatience — my enthusiasm — the fact is, I would 
marry Rose Clarendon." 

" Rose Clarendon 1" exclaimed Sir Roger. 

" Rose Clarendon," re-echoed Mr. Atherley. 

An explanation was demanded, and given. In a quarter of 
an hour Mr. Atherley and the Baronet left the house together 
for the lawyer's, and in the evening Percy Atherley was seated 
again at the dinner table of Sir Roger, and Rose Clarendon 
was happier than ever she had been in her life before. Even 
Emily was not displeased, and this little comedy she called " a 
mistake of love." 

A Man without Money. — A man without money is a body 
without a soul — a walking death — a spectre that frightens every 
one. His countenance sorrowful, his convcrsationlanguishingand 
tedious. If he calls upon an acquaintance he never finds him 
at home — if he opens his mouth to speak, he is interrupted 
every moment so that he may not have a chance to finish his 
discourse, which it is feared will end in his asking for money. 
He is avoided, and is regarded as an incumbrance to the earth. 
Want wakes him up in the morning, and misery accompanies 
him to his bed at night. The ladies discover that he is awkward 
— landlords believe that he lives upon air — and if he wants any 
thing from a tradesman, he is asked for cash before delivery. 

French Women's Dress. — French women are by many 
supposed to dress better than any other women in the world ; 
and, if such really were the case it would be no wonder, for 
their whole souls are in the cause, and the best part of every 
day is spent in choosing, trying, comparing, criticising — a cap, 
a bonnet, or a gown. 




Mrs. Samuel Baggs was a lady citizen, a very good-hearted 
soul in her way, which more often than not, happened to be the 
direct contrary one to that of every body else ; she was corpu- 
lent, not fair, and more than forty ; as fiery, when she was put 
out, as a day in the West Indies. She was married to — at 
least there was married to her — a little man whose element was 
the counting-house, and his most becoming occupation looking 
over his debt books ! He was fond of wine, but could not get 
it ; liked company, but dared not go into any ; and he very much 
disliked lectures, biit was indulged with one every evening, 
until be dropped off to sleep, and then he dreamed it over again, 
so had it in the first and second editions, corrected by the 
author. To account for these strange foregoing things, Mrs. 
Samuel Baggs was wont to say, " if he were allowed the run 
of the wine cellar, he would very expeditiously run it out, being 
addicted to make anything but a gentleman of himself." He 
was so abominably greedy, that he was never satisfied with a 
glass or two with a friend, but while her back was turned he would 
empty the decanter. The lectures, she never gave any reason 
for them, but I suppose it was to keep her tongue in right order^ 
so that it might not get rusty by the next day, by being still 
so many hours. 

They had a very good business, very good customers, and 
tolerably good payers, or as she said, " they were pretty well 
to do in the world, considering the bad state of the times." 
She had in family (for poor little Mr. Samuel Baggs seemed as 
if he did not belong to, or claimed anything in the world) two 
daughters and one son ; the elder young lady was six-and- 
twenty, the younger one-and twenty, and the boy numbered 
twenty-nine years in this world — all single, and likely to remain 
so ; for husbands now-a-days, like wolves and other rapacious- 
animals are in England " rather scarce ;" and Master Alexan- 
der, or as his mamma used to call him, " Elex," was in no 
hurry to loose his freedom, for he would say " a man may 
always stoop to pick up nothing," implying that he intended 
staying till he could pick up tomething; for when there's a young 
bachelor of good expectations in the way, there are thou- 
sands of girls ready to snap him up, when he has made up his 
mind to ask them to do so kind an office for him I This, be it 
understood, is Master, or begging his pardon, Mr. Alexander's 
opinion ; pray, gentle reader, take it not for mine. 

Margate was always the summer retreat of Mrs. Samuel 
Baggs, and as yet she had always gone either with a party of 
friends or alone, never with any member of her own family ; 
for the Misses B's thought the place "too vulgar," fit only 
for shopmen and women, they preferred going with their amiable 
brother to some fashionable watering-place, where there was 
something to be seen ; or, what is more to the point, where they 
thought the chances were better for getting husbands 1 But, not- 
withstanding the expences they always went to, in silk dresses,, 
satin ditto, muslin ditto, morning ditto, parasols, bonnets, hjits, 
caps, roses, feathers, oils, pomatum, gloves, scents, shoes, 
stockings, fans, lavender water, rose-water, eau-de-Cologne, 
Kalydor, Macassar, tight-lacing, shoe-pinching, ringlets, 
French curls, braids, plaits, bcrws. Madonnas, Malibrans, 
Crisis, sweet smiles, soft words, and laughing looks, every- 
thing went for nothing — they were not engaged ! I'he men 
were all brutes, blind buzzards, dullards, fools, for no ! "^they 
won't, they don't, they won't propose !" 



So at tlicy inniW up their minds and determined to sec 
wliat Miiifrate cuuJd afford in tlic sliupu of a husband in the 
perspective ; vulijo, ijtau ; " Well, yah," said Mrs. S. H., one 
morning (for as I observed before, she was no friend to 
Lindlcy) " Eleek, has been down to the steamer's wharf, to 
know what time the boats start, and there is one at eight, 
another at half-past, and another at nine, which one should you 
like to go by ?" " Oh, that at nine !" said both daughters at 
once, " for, perhaps, there will be a more select assemblage 
than in the earlier ones." " Well, well ! settle it between 
you, it is all one to me, only look sharp about packing up, for 
wc have no time to spare to-day. There is two or tliree little 
odd things not got yet ; so make as much haste as you can, 
there's good ijah ."' and away trotted Mrs. Samuel B. to see 
about the airing of her sheets, for she always took her own. 
The " dear gals" bustled about and packed up as fast as they 
could, and at lialf-past twelve every box was ready and only 
remained uncorded to receive the few little odd things Mrs. B. 
spoke of. 

There was a box covered with black leather, studded with 
brass -headed nails in various devices, such as no mortal save 
tlie maker could expound ; and in the centre of the lid was 
fixed a little bit of brass, with the name of Miss Caroline Baggs 
so deeply indented, that tiie letters seemed in no way inclined 
to be scratched out to make way for the more pleasing appear- 
ance of Mrs. So-and-so ; in short, it seemed made for an old 

nicn there was an immense square box covered with a paper 
as if it had the spotted blue fever, if there is such a disorder ; 
and then a smaller one, with the " scarletina," and at last 
there were two carpet bags, big enough to hold six small 
children each, or two pretty good-sized ones ; I am certain 
that tliey must have been the great-grandfather and great grand- 
mother of carpet-bags, being so large, and, besides bearing 
the appearance of having battled and stood out, many a century, 
they were so aged in the face, plenty of wrinkles and quite 
bald ! 

Here they stood in battle-array, ready to be corded, and only 
waiting for the little articles which Mrs. S. B. got in the after- 
noon, and before the supper-tray came into the parlour (they 
were very regular in their meals, if in nothing else) all was com- 
pleted for starting by the nine o'clock steamer, next morning. 

Oh ! that night ! What a time it was for the poor backs, 
heads, and feet of the two Misses Baggs ! There was such 
scrubbing, rinsing, soaping, and wiping, such a combing, 
scratching, and brushing I Their poor heads ached and throbbed, 
as if there had been a pulse in every hair ; their eyes smarted 
with the soap getting into them, for they had lathered away, 
as if trying an experiment on a blackamoor ! at last they went 
to bed, as the clock struck one, but not to sleep ; they tossed, 
tumbled, and dosed until seven, when they arose, pale and 
weak, and dr ,wsy, dressed themselves as well as tliey could 
in their agitated state ; and placed their bonnets, sliawls, 
and cloaks, boas, caps, gloves, and piuasols, ready to put ou 
after breakfast. 

" Now, my dears, you must eat as liearty as you can, for 
there is nothing so good to prevent sea-sickaess as a good 
breakfast." said Mrs. Samuel Baggs, with her mouth full of 
toast and egg. " Come, Sojihy," she continued, addressing 
her younger daughter, " wiiat are you going to have ? Some 
uice broiled ham, dear ? Come, here's a beautiful little bit !" 
sticking her own fork into a small slice of blackened fat, and 
putting it ou her daughter's plate. — " No, thank you, mother; 

I don't seem to want anything this morning," answered Miss 
Sophia affectedly, leaning ba-^k in her chair. 

" Oh ! come, you must eat something ; now do try that nice 
tit-bit, it looks, I'm sure, very [nice : come do try, there's a 
dear!" returned her mother, coaxingly. — "No, indeed, 
mother, I cunnut." Miss Sophia always wanted much pressing 
to take anything she liked. " Well, theu, I must insist upon 
your eating something," rejoined Mrs. Baggs, getting rather 
cross, and pushing the plate nearer to the opposition side of the 
house. The " ayes" triumphed, and the " noes" demolished 
not only the little bit in dispute, but two more, in addition to a 
fine egg; and sufficient bread and butter for a moderate young 
lady's meal. The elder daughter took care of herself, and Mr. 
Eleck and poor little Mr. Samuel B. were left to scramble for 
what few scraps on the table were not devoured by the 
ladies. " Come girls, make haste, its almost eight, and you'll 
be too late if you don't mind ; the boat starts exactly as the 
clock strikes nine," urged Mr. Eleck to his sisters. They 
immediately started up stairs, to put their things on, while he 
was directed by his mamma to run for a coach. 

The morning gave promise of as warm a day in the month of 
July as any reasonable individual could wish, the flaming and 
oleagenous countenance of Mrs. B. bore ample testimony to- 
the warmth of the atmosphere, and sundry puffs and heavy 
sighs which issued from her lips, and the frequent ejaculation 
of " Oh 1 gals, how hot it is 1" did nought to lessen her cor- 

" Oh, never mind the warmth, mother, here's the coach 
come !" exclaimed Miss Sophia, running from the window to 
the looking glass, to tie down her close cottage straw bonnet, 
on which she had fastened a black lace veil, in case it should be 
windy, and the bonnet strings give way. 

" Come along, bring all the shawls and your parasols," cried 
Mrs. Samuel Baggs, flying from one chair to another, and then 
to the bed ; flustering, banging, and hurrying about, as though 
she had found out the perpetual motion, and becoming hotter 
and hotter every instant with her exertions ; at the same time 
putting all more in confusion than if she had stood still; col- 
lecting everything necessary for wrapping them up, for as she 
prudently said, " they did'nt know how cold it was when they 
got on the sea." " Here Carry," to her eldest girl, "here 
take these ; no, stop, I'll take them myself; Lord, bless me, if 
that careless creature knows what she's about. Now then." 

So Mrs. Samuel Baggs hurried down the stairs as fast as her 
great arm -full of shawls and boas would permit, followed by 
her daughter Caroline. 


All the boxes were on the roof of the coach, the carpet-bags- 
inside, and the coachman stood with the door in his hand. The 
girls kissed their father and brotlier, and Mrs. S. B. whispered 
in her spouse's oar " to mind what he was about while she was 
out of the way.'' After cautioning Mr. Alexander to keep a 
sliarp look out on his father ; tlie lady was assisted by the 
driver and her son outside and by her amiable daughters 
within. The door was slammed to — tlic man jumped up on the 
box — gave a good cut across the boiiey backs of the two poor 
horses, and off tliey were. The three ladies stretched their 
heads out of the same window, nodded adieu to their affectionate 
relatives, and then fell into their seats with such force as to make 
tlie vehicle rebound again ; tlie commotion seemed for an instant 
(but only for one) to propel the poor animals into something of 
a small trot, but finding the bhock of the earthquake came not 



again, they sank into the crawl they had but momentarily 
quitted, and so proceeded to their destination. 

Mrs. B. began to look about to see that all their things 
were safe, and that the coachman had not crammed one of her 
carpet-bags into his pocket. " The baskets with the sanvidges 
and fruit, gals," she exclaimed, "are under the seat, mind, so 
recollect to take them when we get out." Her daughters 
looked at each other, and then at their mamma. " Did you 
put them in, mother ?" asked Miss Caroline in a doubtful tone. 
"No, one of you did, didn't you? instantly rejoined Mrs. 
Samuel Baggs, looking at them earnestly. " No, mother, 
/ did not," they answered in one breath. " You did't — neither 
of you!" cried Mrs. Samuel B. at the top of her unmusical 
voice, " O, my goodness, gracious ! icas there ever two greater 
fools in existence ! What are you fit for!" shrieked the lady 
mother, almost in a fit, with a look of horror at the two thought- 
less ones, " Could not you think of such a little thing as the 
baskets, without you have me at your elbows ! And why do 
you sit there, looking like two fools ? — why don't you put your 
heads out of window, and call to the man to stop ?" 

Neither of the girls seemed willing to do this, so Mrs. 
Samuel Baggs waited for no more argument, but thrusting her 
heijd out of the window, called out as lustily as her lungs would 
let her, for the man to stop ; " Coachman ! coachman ! I say 
coachman!" she screamed, but no coachman answered, for 
they had just turned out of the long street in which they lived 
into Cheapside, and the noise there drowned all the screaming 
and squeaking which issued from the interesting lady in the 
vehicle. *' Coachman 1" said Miss Caroline, in a genteel 
whisper, placing her face just even with the door, being desired 
by her mother to " try if she couldn't make him hear." 

"Bless me, the man's deaf!" said Mrs. Baggs, thrusting 
forth her head till her waist rested on the edge of the door, and 
the crown of her bonnet was even with the roof. The lady and 
her daughter seemed to be contending for a prize ; which would 
gain it seemed a doubtful question ; the one for shrieking the 
loudest, the other for whispering the lowest, to the gentleman 
on the box, who, in happy unconsciousness, there sat, wrapped 
up in many capes as though it were a cold day in the middle of 
winter. He, ungallant wretch that he was ! seemed perfectly 
heedless of the conversation which the two ladies were so eager 
to commence with him, while their interesting appearance and 
situations excited many strange surmises and curious remarks 
from the passers by. 

Poor Mrs. Samuel Baggs had long been warm ; she was now 
absolutely in a fever ; but the coach, coachman, and horses, 
seemed to be of stone, for no answer was 'returned, either to 
her continued vociferations, or her gentle daughter's soft and 
murmuring cry. At length an omnibus came rattling along, 
&nd the driver, who had been watching admiringly the head of 
Mrs. Samuel B. all the way as he came along Cheapside, think- 
ing either that it was a pity so much human breath should be 
wasted, or that the lady's exertions would frighten his horses, 
gave a cut with his whip across the glazed hat of the coachman, 
which peeped out above the many capes, and aroused that 
philosophical personage from his abstraction. " Hollo ! old 
deaf-as-a-post, "don't yer hear yer customers calling yer ?" 
The coachman turned round on his perch, and leaning down by 
the side of the vehicle, he respectfully asked what " Marm" 
wanted ? 

" Why you must be as deaf as a beedle !" cried Mrs. Samuel, 
"for I've been calling you this half hour to turn back; for 
we've Igft something of great consequence behind us." 

" Certainly," answered the marf, as Mrs. B. ceased speaking, 
and presently the vehicle was turning about. Suddenly a ci-y 
arose from Miss Sophia : " O, stop, stop t"' she exclaimed, 
dragging the unlucky panniers from underneath the seat, just 
as the poor animals were commencing a trot towards the home 
of the Baggs's. Again the unfortunate animals were put into 
a revolving motion, and away they went to their destination, 
Mrs. Baggs's tongue rattling incessantly, scolding her two poor 
girls, till they all came to a stand still at the entrance to St. 
Katherine's Wharf. 

"Come, make haste!" exclaimed the lady, as she stood 
fumbling in her pocket for her purse ; " there's the bell ring- 
ing, and we shan't get on board now, if you don't be quick. 
Here, coachman, what's your fare ?" 

" Seven shillings, Marm," said the man, modestly. " What, 
seven shillings !" ejaculated Mrs. S. B. "I shall not suffer the 
imposition !" 

" That's my fare, Marm," returned he, coolly. 

" There's the bell almost done," urged Miss Sophia, " and 
we shall lose the packet ; now, dear mother, make haste." 
" There, then, take the money, and tell me your number," said 
Mrs. B., putting the silver in the coachman's hand. 

"Thank ye, Marm," said Coachy, touching his hat. "But 
I want your number," persevered Mrs. Baggs. " Oh 1 cer- 
tainly Marm, No. 15 ;" and No. 12,780 marched off with a 
grin on his face, congratulating himself on his having " done" 
the lady. 

" Now, gals, come along, and I'll make your father have 
that fellow up when we come home again," said Mrs. Samuel 
Baggs ; and away she went, followed by her two chicks, and 
just managed to scramble on board as the plank was being 
removed, a circumstance that served her to talk about as her 
" narrow escape from drowning." 

I need not tell that the water was smooth, that there was no 
motion in the vessel, or how Mrs. B. praised her girls for being 
" such good sailors," and how rough it had been every time 
she had been to Margate before. It will be enough to say, that 
the interesting family stepped on the jetty in safety ; and within 
half an hour aftei-wards, they were comfortably seated round 
a tea-table, at a house where, year after year, Mrs. Samuel B. 
had been accustomed to reside. After that meal they changed 
their attire, and went to view all the wonders of the town. 
" There, this is the bathing-rooms, girls," said Mrs. Baggs ; 
" and this is] the BuUioards ; let's go in here." " So they all 
went in, and after walking round, they sat down to look at the 
company with better advantage ; the rooms were pretty well 
filled, the raffle-tables were surrounded, the dice were rattling, 
and the man was shouting, " Only one to make up a number ! 
Any lady or gentleman willing to try and gain a chance for this 
splendid work-box and desk! — the highest number wins the 
box, the lowest wins the desk ! Ladies and gentleman ! only 
one wanted ! only one !" 

" Come, Cary, have a try," whispered Mrs. B. Miss 
Caroline accordingly glided up to the table, threw, and gained 
the chance, just as a young gentleman with large jet whiskers 
and black (false) mustachios, tendered his wish to try for what 
Miss B. had gained. 

" Rather too late, sir," said the president of the table ; but 
you can try in the next number. What name shall I put you 
down. Miss ?" addressing Caroline. " Elvira," said the young 
lady. The company naturally looked round at such a name, 
and the forestalled gentleman with the lip-wig thought it fit and 
proper to follow her to her seat by the side of her Mamiua, and 



to enter iuto conversation *itU the eldest lady. Talkinp went 
on, first with one daiiRhtcr, and then with tlic other, then nf;ain 
with Mamma, until they heard the clock strike ten. They 
would not stay any lonjrcr, as tluy kariicfl that the articles 
wouM not to be thrown for till the loUowiiij/- i\ cuing ; the g:in- 
tleman then very modestly proil'crcd his protection to their door ; 
Mrs. napgs smiled and " thank'ee sired," and the two girls 
touched each other, looked and pippled ; and then, by a sinpular 
chance. Miss Caroline linked her arm with the young gentle- 
man's, and by a still more singular chance, they walked much 
slower than Mrs. and Miss Sophia B. 

" You say I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Tivoli, 
to-morrow evening," lisped the gentleman, in enamoured accents, 
" but I have not yet been gratified with the name of the fair 
being who has honoured me to-night with such sweet smiles." 

Miss Caroline was of a very dark complexion, but she fancied 
that the gentleman must have meant the compliment for her, 
so she simpered and said — " my name is Caroline Fitzharold." 

" A sweet name, truly," replied the gentleman, smilingly, 
but far from being able to reflect greater sweetness on its 

Miss Caroline was delighted ; " Gentlemen," she murmured, 
" do not always speak the truth." 

The lover answered — " Fairest, believe that nought but truth 
ean fall from the lips of your own Augustus Vernon." 

Caroline was happier than ever. She was in a state of per- 
fect felicity when they reached her home. Mrs. Baggs and Miss 
Sophia politely bade the interesting stranger good night ; but 
Caroline could not part thus. She thought it proper to make a 
false step, and in order to save herself from falling she held the 
hand that wa< tenderly pressing hers, and contrived, by holding 
her breath, to call up a little fl>ish to her cheeks, when he 
whispered his hopes of seeing her the next evening. That night, 
as she laid her head on the pillow, as a matter of course with all 
young ladies in a similar situation, her last thoughts were of 
Augustus Vernon, and also, of course, he came to her in her 
dreams. The next morning she believed she felt love — pure and 
lasting love — for the adorable Augustus, and as she pinned on 
the last ringlet, she vowed in her own mind to become liis wife, 
or never be a wife at all ! At breakfast she told her affectionate 
parent of the name she had assumed, and begged her not to 
tindeceive the interesting stranger. Mrs. Baggs, who was well 
pleased with the young gentleman's attentions (feeling assured 
that he was a person of distinction), willingly promised not to 
spoil the romance with the utterance of such a vulgar name as 
' Baggs." The evening came, and Caroline's heart went pit-a- 
pat ; and as she drew her waist ribbon closer and closer, Miss 
Sophia vowed with a laugh she was blushing at the thoughts 
of meeting Mr. Vernon; Caroline shook her head in denial, and 
likewise shook down one of her curls which had been badly 
fastened. As they entered the gardens in all the splendour of 
city dress, the first object that met their eyes was Mr. Ang-astus, 
looking down on the ground, and his lip-curls looking up with 
n true military twist. He flew to them, and gossipped about 
being so happy I so honoured I so pleased 1 so overjoyed ! so 
transported ! so delighted ! at their gracing the gardens with 
their lovely presence. Mrs. Baggs managed to get into con- 
versation with an old acquaintance. Miss Sophia engaged with 
an elongated youth, in a blue jacket with gilt buttons, and a 
cap with a gold band : and Miss Caroline was again most happy. 
It was the first time in her life that love-words (falsehoods) had 
been whispered in her ear. Augustus and her contented them- 
selves with dancing in one quadrille, and wandered in the dark 

walks for the rest of the evening, arm linked with arm, in and 
after the strict fashion of the last new love novel. Oh I the 
waste and murder that was committed, of all the good words 
which were iriveu for our use — not abuse— in these few hours I 
It wouhl have made a (hne sicken, if he could have understood 
them. But it suits not our disposition to chronicle the soft non- 
sense that young gentlemen will talk when they have a girl 
foolish enough to listen to them. 

That evening, as Mr. Augustus V, wished the ladies good 
night, at the bottom of the three stone steps at their iloor, there 
needed no false step, no holding of the breath ; the pressure was 
voluntarily given, and the blush was voluntarily banished, for 
Caroline and Augustus had exchanged vows of mutual love. 

Consternation and affright awaited them within doors. A letter 
from London was upon the table, conveying the sorrowful news 
that Mr. Alexander Baggs was ill — very ill. The fond mother 
was immediately visible in poor Mrs. Baggs, and had it been 
possible, she would have started for home that insUmt. Tlic 
young ladies were rather vexed and disappointed, for they had 
been only one day at Margate. Miss Caroline frowned and 
worried about Mr. V. not having her address in town, but it was 
of no use, so with a sigh she was obliged to hope that he would 
find her out. 

The next morning by eight o'clock they started, and arrived 
at their home in the evening. Mr. Alexander was in bed, and 
poor little Mr. Baggs, having had no eyes upon him for two days, 
had taken care to supply himself with an extraordinary quantity 
of port and sherry, so that when Mrs. Baggs made her appear- 
ance, the little gentleman was in very great spirits, and he called 
his interesting better half, his "Nancy," and smiled a generous 
smile, which Mrs. Samuel B. responded to by an immediate and 
indignant order to "be off to bed," and despite entreaties, off 
the gentle Mr. B. was compelled to go. 

Mr. Alexander soon began to mend under his maternal parent's 
care ; and one evening as he sat with his feet in the bath, as- 
cording to the direction of his medical attendant, the servant 
announced " Mr. Harris's young man." 

" Who ?" said Miss Sophia. 

" Mr. Harris's young man. Miss," answered the girl ; " tho 
tailor's clerk ; he's brought home Mr. Alexander's coat. 

" Show him in," said the invalid. — " Soph, you'd better go." 

Sophia went ; and the young man came in and proceeded to 
display his work with professional dexterity. In the midst of 
an eloquent discourse, the door quietly opened, and Miss Caroline 
glided into the room. 

" Ha ! Augustus 1 Mr. Vernon !" shrieked the young lady, 
with a true-lover's scream of joy. 

" Miss 1 Miss Fitzharold 1" stammered the tailor's clerk ; 
and down fell the piece of best Saxony broad cloth, into the hot 
foot bath, while Mr. Eleck stared and called aloud for an ex- 
planation, but no explanation came. 

Miss Caroline's outcry brought Mrs. Samuel Baggs and Miss 
Sophia into the room, and then came the grand exposure. Mrs. 
Samuel B. could not contain her passion on finding that she had 
been " so put on, by a nasty low fellar of a tailor's dark !" — 
More she would have Scaid, but the gentleman had made his exit. 

Poor Miss Caroline, bathed in a flood of tears, had to endure 
her sister's and brother's laughter at the unlucky termination of 
tlie romance ; but it served as a warning to her, and she ever 
after took especial care never to fancy herself in love with 
" strange geutlemen, black whiskers, and uustachius." 



TO * * *. 

Ah yes 1 I wreathe the roses in my hair, 

And the gay look of joyous pleasure wear, 

I move amid the thoughtless, dazzling throng, 

Mix in the festive dance, and join the song. 

Assume the happiness I do not share, 

Laugh with the loud, and seem the gayest there. — 

There are who deem me cold — they little know 

The heart that aches teneath the seeming show 

Of joy — yet tho' by keen reproach 'tis wrung, 

Ay words of with'ring coldness deeply stung ; 

'Tis too severely proud to let them see 

That they can influence my destiny ; 

Conflicting feelings drown ! be hush'd the sighs 

That spite of all my firmness oft arise ; 

Let me not by one look or word disclose, 

That they have power to banish my repose. — 

Yet when this gay and splendid scene is o'er. 

And my pain'd heart can play its part no more, 

Alone, unseen, my feverish spirits fail, 

And tears, sad, flo\ving welcome tears prevail. 

My proud supported feelings pass away, 

And nature, long suppress'd, then has her sway. 



By a Bachelor. 

Several beautiful young ladies have died lately of inflamma- 
tion, arising, it is believed, from tight lacing. Let these sad 
events operate as a warning to all those dear creatures who 
may be in the habit of tightening their corsets till their fair 
cheeks are flushed, and their eyes lose all their softness and 
beautiful expression. Young ladies never consider how greatly 
the beauty of the countenance is injured by tight lacing. Their 
desire is to make it appear that they have slender waists ; but 
what a silly desire that is 1 They cause their servants to pull 
and struggle to reduce what "nature has made incomparably 
well; ' putting the unhappy victims to inexpressible torture. 
Indeed, were tight-lacing made a punishment, the world would 
hear constant outcries against the barbarity of it. And yet 
young ladies willingly subject themselves to this barbarous 
punishment; and for what? to make themselves attractive in 
the eyes of the lords of the creation ! But do they make them- 
selves attractive by so doing? Assuredly not. We can tell 
them that they labour under a great mistake. We speak from 
feeling, sentiment, and natural impulse. The diameter or cir- 
cumference of a fair lady's bust is of very little importance in 
the form of beauty— it is the whole of the figure, well-propor- 
tioned and graceful, that awakens admiration. The slender 
waist is no essential element of beauty. In order to create in 
the heart of the man of real sentiment, purer than that of Joseph 
Surface, and better than that of Charles, his brother,— it is 
necessary that the waist should maintain a due proportion to 
the whole of the figure, and with express reference also to the 
soft white neck, gradually approaching to the pouting lips, the 
rosy cheeks, the melting eyes, and the glorious angelic fore- 
^ead, with its auburn clusters, hanging round it like the acan- 
thus over the Corinthian capital. 

What can be a more unsightly object than a female modelled 
alter the exquisite Mediceau statue, but with a waist like a wax 

taper ? One might be fearful of approaching her lest the waist 
should snap, and the lady fall into two pieces. No, no ; grace, 
thorough grace, is what the ladies study ; and it is to be hoped 
that they will profit by these hints and come to the just conclu- 
sion that a too narrow waist is not an element of beauty and 
grace, but that it is a principle leading to torture, melancholy, 
consumption, death, a marble monument, andHicJacet, Eloisa. 



Although the clouds have left my brow, 

And smiles are on my face, 
Yet think not heavenly peace hath now 

Within my heart a place : — 
Ah, no ! despairing woe doth reign 

Throughout my bosom yet ; 
'Tis hid, that I may spare thee pain. 

But how can I forget ? 

That hour — of almost maddening grief, 

Of agonizing pain. 
When even Hope refus'd relief, 

And you deem'd loving vain — 
My aching heart doth now exclaim 

Would that we'd never met ! 
'Tis fate — not thee, dear girl — I blame : 

Oh, that I could forget 1 

But, no ; I feel that cannot be ; 

Eternally enshrin'd 
Within my heart is love for thee — 

That pure, that sacred kind 
Which lives though hope within me dies ; 

Yea, till life's sun be set. 
Though you should spurn me, hate, despise, 

I never will forget. 

You may, 'tis true, forget the past, 

And think no more of me — 
Leave me to wither in the blast, 

Like to some lonely tree 
That's shattered by the lightning's stroke, 

Rent, sear'd, but living yet : — 
Such is my heart — 'tis bleeding, broke — ■ 

But / cannot forget 1 

Farewell, long-cherished Hope — farewell I 

Thy witcheries no more 
Shall from my soul this gloom expel, 

Or gild one lonely hour : — 
Farewell, dear idol of my heart ! 

For such I'll deem thee yet ; 
And though I know we're doom'd to part, 

I feel I can't forget ! I. R. 

Hints to Ladies.— Ladies often lose the men they love, 
and who love them, whom, by mere wantonness of coquetry, 
they reject ; they should be careful not to take this step hastily, 
for a proud, high-minded, gifted man, will seldom ask a woman 




Bnrhiior. — A man of many sorrows. One who rises in the 
inorninff only to po to hed again at night. 

Charily. — Tlie knaves' friend. 

Hope. — Delusive phantom in the hour of need. Hope often 
di(rs its own crave with the spade of inuliscretion. 

Human Felicity. — The highest degree of human felirity con- 
sists in peace of mind, and the due cmi)loymeiit of time. 

Indepemhnce. — Is often hut the want of sympathy with 
others There was a certain merchant sojourning at an inn, 
whom the hoots, by mistake, called betimes in the morning. 
" Sir," quoth the boots, " the day's breaking." The merchant 
turned round with a grim look — *' Let it break," growled he, 
•' it owes me nothing." 

Joy. — The sensations of joy felt on approaching the home of 
a beloved one, are like the twilight of morning before the sun 
has become visible. 

l,ife. — A froward child that must be played with and 
humoured to keep it quiet, till it is rocked to sleep, and then all 
is over. A road which leads from the morning of youth to the 
night of the grave. A continual struggle to be what we cire not. 
and to do what we cannot. 

London Cream. — The fable of the milky way. 

Longevity. — One of the penalties we pay for longevity, is the 
loss of those who have been dear to us in our pilgrimage. 

Looking -Glass. — A well-bred implement, and greatest flat- 
terer in the world ; it tells every woman she is a beauty, and 
never disparages behind the back.' 

Lore. — Something which every lady and gentleman above 
eighteen think they understand better than anybody else in the 

Money. — Wisdom, knowledge, and power all combined. 

Patriot. — A candidate for place. 

Roses. — An Eastern sage says, that roses were made of what 
was left of woman at the creation. 

Slander. — The venom without the beauty of the serpent. 

Sleep. — Death's younger brother ; and so like him, says 
Sir Thomas Browne, that I never dare trust him without my 


" Thou 'rt married now !" 

Thou 'rt his, dear Liza, and my pray'r 

To Hcav'n above shall be, 
TTiat thy fair brow from lonely care 

May prove for ever free ; 
That every pure and hallowed thought 

Which grac'd thy maiden breast. 
May spring untainted from its home. 

And find in his a rest. 
Thou now art like a fragile flower 

Twin'd round a stately bough. 
Which seeks support from what it loves- 

For " thou art married now." 

A wife hath joys, yet she hath cares. 
For she must strive to smooth 

Tlie worldly paths, and calm the brow 
Of hiin she's sworn to lovo : 

Must watch his glance, must court hi<< smile. 

When in his gayest vein. 
And with attiiitions kind beguile 

His hours of woe and pain : 
Must as a zephyr gently l)orne. 

To soothe our fevered brow. 
Breathe life's dull eve to brightened morn — 

For " thou art married now." 

Oh, may'st thou be to him e'en as 

The sun is to the day. 
To shed thy light, to cheer his soul, 

And point the future way : 
And may his heart, responsive still, 

Its throbbings blend with thiuc. 
As two fair streams together will 

Roll on with deathless time : 
And may he gratify each wish 

Soon as thy words can si ow 
That it hath dwelt within tliy breast — 

For " thou art married now." 

And when the coming winter's snows 

Have passed thy happy home ; 
When spring once more her mantle throws, 

And tells of days to come. 
May thy life's garden still seem fair, 

Bright roses deck the lawns, 
And may it prove thy husband's care 

To keep them free from thorns ; 
So thou may'st say, as time glides past, 

With joy upon thy brow. 
Each day is happier than the last — 

For " I am married now." 

Tho' marriage change thy thoughts — thy ways- 

From those in girlhood's hour, 
Tho' now thine ear hears husband's praise. 

And thy bright days ne'er low'r ; 
Yet think on me with heart as kind 

As erst it used to be. 
When every feeling of thy mind 

Became as own to me. 
As in those days when we first loved. 

And plighted friendship's vow ; 
So, Lisa, sometimes think on mc, 

Altho' "thou'rt married now." 

For now thou'rt gone I feel as some 

Lone boat upon tha sea, 
Whose consort's gone, whose rudder's lost. 

And in uncertainty 
Doth speed to find a home, to rest 

Upon the watery waste ; 
Wafted by winds which seeming fair. 

May dire destruction haste. 
As such am I, I've lost thy aid, 

To point the path most wary ; 
Louisa, tliouph thou'rt " married now," 

Think — sometimes think on 









&c. &c. &c. 



Vol. XV. 









The present number of " The World of Fashion," is embel- 
lished with a representation of one of the most striking and 
effective scenes in the new Olympic burletta, called Puss in 
Boots, in which Madame Vestris and Mr. Mathews are 
performing with so much success. In a recent number we 
gave some biographical particulars of these favorites of the 
public, and we need, therefore, only observe here, that their 
acting in the new burletta is fully equal to their professional 
reputation; for Madame Vestris never played with more 
spirit nor sung more charmingly than in the character of Ralph 
the owner of Puss ; while Mr. Mathews has gained fresh 
laurels by his lively and droll representation of the booted cat. 
The story of the piece is universally known : it is the same 
with which all our readers have been familiar in the nursery. 



Amazing brightness, purity and truth, — 
Eternal joy!" Otway. 

The more the people of this realm become acquainted with 
the virtues of the illustrious female who has recently ascended 
the throne, the more enthusiastic do they become in their aspi- 
rations for her happiness and welfare. It was the natural 
feeling of Englishmen that prompted them when Victoria 
became their Queen to come forth with demonstrations of 
loyalty and affection ; the circumstance of a female, and so 
young a one, being called to the throne, was of itself sufficient 
to cause a host of British hearts to gather round her for pro- 
tection ; but our illustrious sovereign deserves all the honours 
and all the homage that are paid to her ; expectation is more 

Vol. XV. 

than realized : they who had heard of the intelligence and 
amiability of the Pi-incess Victoria, high as their hopes 
were raised, never for a moment supposed the object of their 
loyal hopes to be so peerless as the Uueen Victoria. We 
have before us the letter of an Irish gentleman upon the sub- 
ject of the personal charms of our youthful sovereign, and it is 
so beautifully written, and is, moreover, so true a representa- 
tion of the Oueen, that we have much pleasure in submitting it 
to our readers. I have seen her Majesty, says our Hiber- 
nian enthusiast. I had never seen royalty before ; and the first 
view of that fair form dazzled my vision. I was astonished 
that a person of such exquisite beauty should have been so illr 
described. The English are a wonderful people, truly a noble 
race, but they lack much of that enthusiasm of us Irish ; it is- 
not want of taste that has prevented them giving the world a 
just description of the young, graceful, and exquisitely fair 
sovereign, as theirs is most delicate ; but it is, that the English. 
look more to mental qualifications for the due government of a 
mighty nation than we do, and that winning loveliness of form 
and face that sparkles so brightly in our estimation, is with, 
them a matter of but secondary consideration. Perhaps they 
are the more sensible, we the more ardent people. Her 
Majesty is not low in stature, as we in Ireland had been led 
to consider. She is apparently of that captivating Venus size, 
so highly prized and much admired in Latin and Grecian lore. 
Her Majesty was sitting when I had the high privilege of 
seeing her ; her forehead rested on a hand perhaps the smallest 
and whitest for a person of her age in the world, and her half- 
bare arm rivalled the hand in symmetry and whiteness. Her 
dress was dark, and sufficiently low to show a neck of the most 
graceful form. Her face is oval, her complexion fair, her hair 
of that rare shade of brown for which you have known some 
ladies so much admired. And oh, such hair ! soft, fine, luxu- 
riant, divided a la Madonna, and worked into a crown on the 
back part of the head. Her white and ample forehead, well 
contrasted with the rich shine of that glossy hair. Her eye- 
brows, rather darker than her hair, rise in gentle arches above 
her ample eyes of the most dazzling brilliant brightness, indi- 
cating a disposition both playful and good ; they are fringed 



with long (lark silken eyelashes, that tend to goften the sparkle 
of her eyes. Her nose is grneefuUy formed, licr lips just fur 
enoui,'h separate to slwnv two rows of teeth like pearls, and 
when HKR Majesty was seen to smile, those lips displayed 
the liveliest tints of the rose contrasting well with tiic delieate 
glow on her clieek. lliji iMajesty's shoulders arc low and 
well formed — her waist is slender and round — her feet small — 
her ankles fine— her whole person exquisitely graceful and dig- 
nified. In a word, neitlier pen nor pencil can adeipiatelv por- 
tray her beauty and fine form. You must come over to London 
to see her and judge for yourself, and I know you will then 
acknowledge that half her charms have not been told ; but I 
would say that what the evening star is among planets, the 
diamond among rich gems, the rose among flowers — such is 
our lovely Queen among the gentle se«. 

The time of her Majesty, during the early part of the 
month, was spent at Windsor, where several distinguished 
visitors have been royally entertained. When the weather per- 
mitted, HER Majesty rode out: but the severity of the frost 
kept HER Majesty confined witliin doors almost the whole of 
tlie time that she remained at Windsor. The evening's amuse- 
ments were enlivened by the peformances of her Majesty's 
private band, and also of her Majesty's musicians. The 
return to the Palace in St. James's Park, was on the I6th ult. 
Her Majesty, accompanied by her illustrious parent, came 
from Windsor, escorted by a party of Lancers, and when the 
(liJEEN arrived at the I'alace, the Master of the Horse and the 
Lord and Groom in Waiting, wlio were in attendance, came 
forth to receive her Majesty, and usher her to the Royal 
apartments. A grand entertainment was given at the Palace 
on the 27th, in honour of the birth-day of the Duke of 

Her Majesty remains in the enjoyment of good health, as 
does also her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent. 

It will afford much pleasure to our readers to hear the QuEEN 
Dowager is greatly improved in health. 


Paris, Jan. 25, 1838. 
Paris has been excessively gay during the month, and among 
the most attractive of the personages figuring in our fashion- 
able salons, are some distinguished members of the British aris- 
tocracy, the Bedfords, the Abcrcorns, the Clanrieardes, the 
Campbells, and others. The conflagration at the Opera, 
though it created what we call a sensation, did not " eclipse the 
gaiety of the capital," for the singers speedily found an asyhxm, 
and with the exception of poor Severini's death, and the 
lamentable accidents that occurred during the fire, the matter 
can be set to rights again. All the world, that is to say, all 
tlie Paris " world," is running after Tacchinardi Persiani, 
who has contrived to give a good deal of effect to Donizetti's 
last new opera, Luccia di Lammerermuir, of which you have, 
doubtless, heard mucli,but which, en verife, is the least worthy 
of its author's works. Persiani is not a singer to my taste, 
though she is generally admirej, and is engaged, as report 
says, by Laporte, for your London Opera. Her voice is thin 
and weak ; but, in justice, I must add, that its fighfs are 
sometimes extraordinary. She reminds me occasionally of 
SoNTAG — Sontag, whose star has sot upon the stage, never 
I fear to rise there again. 

But to " commence with the commenoomcnt," as the light- 
hearted people of this country would say, I must tell you all the 
fashionable news and gossip from the beginning of the month, 
the jour del'an, the most busy and fatiguing, but, perhaps, the 
most delightful of all the days in the year. It was a splendid 
court-day ; the King received numberless deputations, and 
everybody seemed to be bent upon pleasure taking. There was 
a delightful drawing-room on the 4th at the Palace, but 1 
observed very few Knglish present. The Queen looked well, 
but I missed the dignified Princess Marie from her side, and i 
fancied I could discover a pensive expression in the graceful 
mien of the Princess Clementine, as if the recurrence of this 
yearly ceremony had recalled more vividly the absence of her 
Royal sister. The Duchess of Wurtcml)urg is a most gifted 
and accomplished lady. No doubt the fame of her statue of 
Jeanne d'Arc, designed and executed by her, has already 
reached England. It is now in the gallery at Versailles, and 
displays great genius, both in the conception and execution. 
Her Highness has just sent to her brother-in-law, the Duke de 
Nemours, a picture by herself, representing him before the 
walls of Constantina. Rumour speaks highly (.f this Royal per- 
formance. As soon as the Duke dc Nemours recovers from 
the effects of his late accident, it is said to be his intention to 
pay his Royal sister a visit in Germany. Some say that the 
young Prince wishes to obtain a sight of a fair Princess of 
Saxony, with whom an alliance is in contemplation. It is also 
rumoured that the Prince de Joinvillc is to be betrothed to tlu: 
Young Queen of Spain, Isabella the 2nd. This is the current 
Court gossip, but what tnith there may be in it I cannot under- 
take to say. The Court receptions for the presentation of 
ladies have been very magnificent, and there have been some 
very distinguished entertainments given by the haut ton. The 
Tudors had a concert some days since ; but I avow that I 
thought the programme, printed in gold letters upon papier 
s»ti»e, with a beautiful gilt border, the best part of the enter- 
tainment. The Binghams had a ball on the 17th. The 
Rothschilds had one on the .5th ; where, and, at others, I 
have seen clustering the fair flowers of the British nobility. 
Among them were the Duke and Duchess of Montrose, the 
Marquess and Marchioness of Abereorn, the Marquess of 
Douglas and Marchioness of Clanricarde, the Countess of 
Cawdor, and the three Ladies Campbells, the Ladies G. Russell, 
G. Fullarton, H. P. Gallway, Viscount and Viscountess Bury, 
the Countess of Elgin, the Marchioness of Sli^o, the Earl of 
Altainont, and the Ladies Brown, &c. &c. The same dis- 
tinguished personages were present at a boll giveh at the 
British Embassy, wliich was overflowing with the liighest dig- 
nitaries of the Faubourg St. Germain, in addition to the leading 
personages of the present Court. The/e/f, like all those given 
by the British Ambassadress, was eminently brilliant. Among 
the French beauties noticed in the dance were two lovely 
debutantes of the season, the daughters of the Comtesse dc St. 
Aldegonde, dame d'honneur de la Heine, Mademoiselle d'Henin, 
Madame de Contadis, and many others of equal note. Colonel 
Thome has given several showy fetes ; and the musical and 
dancing soirees nf Madame de Delmar have been select as usual. 

The reception at the Tuileries have a very remarkable feature, 
the King and his illustrious consort are pleased to receive gen- 
tlemen without the formal Court dress. The few Court dresses 
to be se«n are principally worn by noble Italians, amonget whom 

one cannot help distinguishing the Prince l\ , who, though 

exiled from his country for his ultra-liberal opinions, has all the 
l(M)ks aiul manners of the Btauuchest aristocracy. 



The Hotel de TAinbassade would seem to be destined to 
receive the lo\eliest aud most noble of the sex. It was the 
residence of the Princess Pauline Borghese, the beautiful sister 
of Napoleon. In the days of splendour at the Imperial Court, 
the most delightful fetes were given at this residence by its 
fascinating mistress. I know not whether she has left a charm 
within its walls, or whether the saloons were by her taste art- 
fully arranged for the display of beauty ; certain it is that 
nothing can be more enchanting than the soirees held in them. 
The long conservatory, dimly lighted, into which these saloons 
open, and on which the eye gladly reposes, presents that sensa- 
tion of heat and suffocation which is attendant on closely 
crowded rooms. The natural graces, too, of an Englishwoman, 
and her pure style of beauty, accord well with these flowery 
scenes. I was particularly struck with this the other evening, 

as I caught a glimpse of the lovely Lady L , seated in that 

perfumed bower, her head entirely surrounded with the luxuriant 
foliage of the Laurestinas, intermingled with the bright red 
flowers of the Camelia. She looked like Titania gazing out of 
her leafy dwelling on the revels of us Ynortals. 

The Duke of Orleans and his amiable consort have given a 
state dinner party. The Duchess of Orleans has a peculiar 
grace in doing the honours to her Royal guests. She looks 
much better than when she first arrived in France, notwithstand- 
ing her delicate situation, which gives hopes of another scion 
to this already numerous family. 

By way of killing time I attended a ball for the relief of the 
Poles, at the Casino Paganini, an establishment which has been 
lately opened, and which consists of a magnificent series of 
rooms in the Rue Mont Blanc, where an orchestra executes, 
every evening, overtures and symphonies. The Casino is under 
the special direction of Paganini. The public fancied from its 
name that they were to hear every night, for forty sous (the 
price of admission), this far-famed violinist; but the wily 
director, whose love of money is as great as his talent, has 
reserved himself and his instrument, as an excuse for raising the 
entrance-money from two to ten francs on the nights he 

A bazaar was held here a few days ago, by the ^l^gantes, in 
mitation of the English charity bazaars. A Russian Nobleman 
of rank (it would be cruel to publish his name) was taken there 
by some of his French acquaintances. He lavished his money 
at the various stalls with the profusion of a genuine Prince 
Eusse, — the fair ladies setting forth all their charms to stimulate 

his generosity. At length le Prince de left the bazaar, 

his carriage so loaded with his emplettes as to leave just room 
enough for him and his Parisian friend. Chemin faisant they 
conversed on the efficacy aud success of these bazaars — the 
kindness of the Ladies Patronesses, &c. &c. — repeating, in fact, 
all that has been said fifty times over on the same trite subject; 
when, as a climax, the French Count exclaimed, "But the 
cause — the cause is inspiringl"— " Ah 1 indeed," said the 
Russian (satisfied that it must be one of charity), " I forgot the 
precise object of the bazaar." — " A charitable, nay, a noble 
cause," replied his enthusiastic friend, " the cause of every 
friend of liberty — 'that of the suffering Poles. The Prince looked 
aghast — a baaaar for the relief of the Poles ! He was horror- 
struck. Each little paper parcel before him seemed like a wit- 
ness against him. He, devoted to the Czar, to be seen con- 
tributing to the relief of the rebel Poles 1 — Siberia rose in the 
distance in his mind's eye — he pulled the check-string — " A 
I'Ambassade de Russie," said he to the ready chasseur, " et 
bnilez le pav6." Then throwing himself back in his carriage, 

he said to tl>e Count de , " Let my carriage take you home, 

after it has set me down at the Ambassador's, aud pray do nie 
the favour to accept all these baubles," kicking at the same 
time, most contemptuously, a basket before him, which seemed 
the handwork of the fairies, so delicately was it wrought : " take 
them all, and let me never see them again." The French 
Count shrugged his shoulders, the carriage stopped, and the 
affrighted Russ leapt out of it to relate the whole circumstance 
to his ambassador, before any officious tongue should have 

time to proclaim that " M. le Prince de , attach 6 a la 

personne de sa Majeste I'Empereur de toutes les Russies," had 
attended a bazaar for the relief of the distressed Poles. 

Prince Talleyrand is arrived : he is better than last year* 
The powers of his mind have not kept pace with his years ; 
instead of partaking of decrepitude, they are as active and as 
brilliant as in his younger days. He had an interview with the 
King on the day of his arrival. The Duchess de Dino, who, 
during the Embassy of her uncle, was the general admiration of 
the London fashionables, intends passing her winter in Paris 
with her sister, the Duchess de Lagan. You will readily 
believe me, therefore, when I state that we are in the midst of 
gaiety and pleasure. " Beauty is around us, as light:" and 
the cup of our happiness is full. 


The New Court. — An Englishman who had left his 
conntry in the last reign, and returned now to his home and 
old accustomed places, would become more sensible of the great 
change that has come over our Court than we ourselves who 
live in the midst of it, and have been spectators of the various 
scenes and events as they have occurred. The good King 
William — whose loss to the world none can deplore more 
sincerely than ourselves — had arrived at a time of life when 
nature wishes to retire from the busy scenes of life, and desires 
to dwell in tranquility, and free from the cares and troubles of 
society. He was anxious, however, to fulfil all the duties of 
his exalted situation, and he made many sacrifices to promote 
the gaiety and happiness of his people ; often evincing an utter 
regardlessness of personal ease and comfort, in order that the 
spirit which should ever be sustained in a Court should be kept 
up. But though the good and much regretted King manifested 
anxiety for the happiness of his subjects, it was impossible that 
he could make his court so brilliant, so gay, so animated, and 
we may add iu a limited sense, so popular as it has become 
since a youthful sovereign ascended the throne. King Wil- 
liam had arrived at an age when nature looks with distaste 
upon the pleasures and frivolities of youth, and he could not 
admire, and therefore, could not encourage the cultivation of 
those myriad graces and refinements, which, trifling in them- 
selves, nevertheless constitute together a very brilliant and 
dazzling whole. He preferred the company of the aged wise, 
while the wisdom of the young — for the young are wise as well 
as the old, let the aged shake their heads as they may — was 
thought but little of. Her Majesty Queen Adelaide did all 
that was in her power to enliven the Court, and to a certain 
extent her Majesty succeeded ; but the habits of the Queen 
were more in unison with those of his Majesty, than with those 
of the airy courtiers, in the hay-day of life and joyance ; and 
hence the Court was somt)re though elegant, and was remark- 
able for its novelty and propriety, though not for liveliness and 


Tiir: WOULD OP fashion. 

brillianey. The Court of Queen Vittoria presents the much 
desired coinhiiiatiuii of brilliancy and strict morality, and is 
indeed without a parallel in any age or country. Every indi- 
vidual in tlie Court circles appears to he animated with a new 
spirit, the youn-r arc inspired with a consciousness of the duties 
of their sex and station, and even sedate elderly gentlemen, who 
under other circumstances would have quietly retired to their 
country scats and fox hunting, seem to have received new in- 
spiration and rival the gallantries of their sons and nephews, 
and arc to lie seen looking as pleasant and animated in the 
Palace a?id the Parks, ami dancing as spiritedly in King-street, 
as ever they did in " the light of other days " The Court of 
Queen Victoiua is but yet in its infancy ; but it promises to 
be of surpassing gk.ry ; we have said it is without a parallel. 
We revert to the times of Louis Quartorze, and of England's 
second Charles, wlien courtly splendours were of excessive 
greatness, and poetry and painting, music and song, and grace, 
and genius, and all the retinenients of human fife are supposed 
to have reached the h)gJie>t point to which tliey can be carried; 
but we see running through the magnificence and glory of 
Whitehall and of Versailles a dark stream, exhaling poisonous 
odours, and casting a blighting inrtueuce upon all around ; a 
serpent winding its way among flowers, dealing destruction 
■and death iu the midst of fragrance and beauty. We go back 
to the age of Elizabktii, England's maiden Queen, and fiud a 
generation of stiff starched affected ladies and gentlciniin, who 
fancied gallantry to be a very fine thing, and believed they un- 
derstood it, just as Tomkins or Jenkins whose studies have been 
confined to a Lord Mayor's Hall, fantastically throw about tlu'ir 
limbs and fancy they are dancing ! The Court of Queen Vic- 
toria is not like any of these, nor will it ever be similar. It 
has the refinement and the splendour of Louis Quartorze, with 
the modesty and morality of Elizabeth^ a combination of per- 
fections, without any of that dark alloy, which make the vir- 
tuous-minded turn from the contemplation of the, one with 
disgust, and possessing none of that stiff" formality, which like 
the well starched ruff about their neckt;, rendered the ladies and 
gentlemen of the Court of EUzal)etli so ridiculous. Upon tlie 
throne of England sits that paragon and pattern of her sex, the 
bcautifid, the virtuous, the good Victoiua, upon whose fair 
brow the guardian spirit of England stands eonfest ; surrounded 
by a light of her own beauty's making ; and there about her 
are the young, the beautiful, the good, the wise, the virtuous, 
the wealthy ; the wit, the poet, the philosopher, aU engaged in 
the noble endeavour to exalt the character of Victoria's 
Court, and to increase the glory of the Quceu. Gallantry is 
now no empty name ; for he who looks upon the sunny coun- 
tenance of Qiu;en Victoria, feek willing to risk his life for 
her if it should be required, and a feeling of devotion to the 
whole female sex, thus becomes inspired. .Morality and gal- 
lantry, like brother and sister, go hand in hand ; and future 
bistoripins when they describe the splendours of Victoria's 
Court, will also dwell with gratification and delight upon its 
piety and virtue. 

Her Majkstv's Si.ippkrs. — Her Majesty has perliaps the 
most beautifully formed foot in the world ; it is a pattern of 
grace and symmetry ; as those who have been so fortunate as 
to obUiin a sight of a splendid ;Kiir of dress slippers recently 
made for the Queen at Bristol, may have been able to conceive. 
These shoes almost rival the famous glass slipper of Cinderella. 
They absolutely seem the manufacture of Kobiu Goodfellow, 
Queen Mab, and her baud of faries, rather than the work of 
the fingers and thumbs of mete mortals. They iue of purple 

velvet, the Royal Arms and the Initials V. R., being embroi- 
dered in gold upon the front. The figures are admirably de- 
lineated, well relieved, and the whole exeruted with great art, 
and exquisite delicacy. Around the sides arc entwined wreaths 
of oak leaves, interspersed with acorns and roses, of gold thread 
and silk. The inside is of white satin, and exhibits, also in 
gold, the rose, the thistle, and the shamrock, twining around 
tlie words "All hail to Victoria." These exquisite productions 
are enclosed in a box of sandal wood, with a golden lock ami 
key, the cover being ornamented with the Uoyal Anns, superbly 
carved in ivory. 

Matrimonial Civilitiics. — The separation between a gay 
young nobleman and liis pretty bride is not, as his lordship 
would say, in his sporting phrase, likely to "come off." The 
fact is, we suspect, that much as his lordship loves liberty, he 
loves his lady more, ami though a little domestic misunder- 
standing may have occurred now and then, neither the one nor 
the other would like to be separated for ever. " Farewell" is 
so very hard a word to pronounce, that neither lord nor lady 
can bring it out. It is a pity that a better understanding, 
however, cannot be brought about between the parties. Cer- 
tainly his lordship's little attentions are very extraordinary ; 

they remind us of what we have read of Col. , who at 

certain parties, when the hour of breaking up had arrived, and 
the cloaking of the ladies was going on with great energy, 
would be most polite to his lady, but, nevertheless, leave her to 
get home how she could. That the young men should be 
anxious to guard their partners from the night air was not 

surprising. But it was remarkable to see Colonel 

taking infinite pains to invest his wife with the proper number 
of shawls aud tippets, accompanied with tender injunctions to 
take care of herself ; all which was most tenderly acknowledged 
by the object of his solicitude. This was the more surprising 
as it was known that Colonel — ^-^ did not care a farthing 
for his wife ; and she w as supposed to have carried friendship 
as high as it could well go with somebody else. That some- 
body, too, was generally in waiting, but at a distance, and 

studiously took no part. One evening E , on seeing the 

wonder of a friend, whispered maliciously, " I quite agree 
with you. It «'»' remarkable. But don't you observe her father 
and mother, who have much to leave, in raptures with his con- 
jugal attentions ? And as to the gentleman at a distance, who 
can now say that lie is a chosen euvutirro serventc. We by no 
meaivs wish to insinuate that the lady to whom we have alluded, 
has any cavaiiero servente ; we would indeed, indignantly repel 
any insinuation of the kind ; but her partner, nevertheless, may 
take a hint. 

The Skason. — London is expected to be more brilliant in 
high life during the ensuing season than it has been for many 
yciirs. Her Majesty purposes to hold regular drawing rooms, 
and by her protection and countenance of all the useful and or- 
namental arts and manufactures to set an example to the 
fashionable world, by which all trades and professions will de- 
rive the greatest advantage. 

A Marriagk Kkconcii.iation. — It is with feelings of 
extreme pleasure that we find the long unsettled separation 
ease which has contiimally kept alive the interest of the fashion- 
able world, has been brought to a termination. The parties to 
whom we allude are Sir George and Lady Warrender, the long 
contested suit between whom has at length been terminated by 
the full and entire exoneration of her ladyship from all the 
charges brought against her. We understand that certain ex- 
aminations, wliich took place in I'aris about a year since, upon 



a commission granted by a Court of Sessions in Scotland, were 
perfectly conclusive as to the fate of the prosecution. This 
commission, although granted to the pursuer (or, as we call him 
in England, plaintiff), revolved into an investigation, and con- 
sequent exposure of, the characters and motives of some wit- 
nesses brought forward against her ladyship, and in consequence, 
the defendant, Lady Warreuder, has been, as we have already 
said, exonerated from all the allegations made against her. 
The result of this long pending case has given rise to a general 
feeling of satisfaction and pleasure : indeed, there can be 
nothing more gratifying to right-minded persons than the cir- 
cumstance of a female coming forth from a severe ordeal 

The Book. — Lady C B , has got into a good 

deal of disgrace by writing, or editing, a certain book, which 
although published anonymously, was soon said to be the effu- 
sion of her ladyship. Whether her ladyship deserves the credit 
— or rather the rfts-credit of the publication, we cannot say ; 
but she has not denied the imputation, and she is, therefore, 
supposed to have " had a hand in it." It was " too bad " to 
hold up in an odious light parties by whom the authoress had 
been befriended. People must look about them, now-a-days, 
for even in their own drawing rooms and boudours, there may 
be " a chiel " busily engaged in "'taking notes" of their 
errors and infirmities, to print them for the gratification of the 
vulgar many. 



*' The Drama's laws the Drama's patrons give ; 
And they who live to please must please to live.' 


The arrangements made by M. Laporte, for the ensuing 
season, at the Italian Opera House, are liable to so many 
changes, over which he has no control, that we are only able to 
state what has been determined upon by the lessee, trusting to 
his good fortune to enable him to complete those arrangements 
to his own and the public's satisfaction. 

It is intended that the season shall commence as soon after 
the middle of the present month as possible, but there is every 
probability that it will be nearly the last week in the month 
before the theatre opens. Madame Tachiardi Persiani, is 
to be the Prima Donna, before Easter, assisted by Albertazzi 
and Ivanoff, but with regard to the last ttvo, we have our 
doubts, as in consequence of the destruction of the Italian Opera 
House at Paris, and the company intending to carry on their 
performances at the Academie Royale de Musique, they will 
need all their attractions to fill so large a theatre, and may, 
therefore, be inclined to cast their operas with all the strength 
they can manage, particularly as they commence at Paris with 
the Matrimonio Segretu. A new tenor is mentioned as coming 
from Italy, to commence the season, and the charming 
Duvernay is also re-engaged, with a danseuse, who has 
recently appeared in Paris, and met with very great success. 
Duvernay, we regret to say, is suffering much from illness, 
so much so indeed, as to have appeared nowhere since the close 

of the last season ; should she be well enough to appear at 
the commencement of the season, a new ballet will be produced, 
with the music by Pilati, the composer of the ballet music of 
Le Eriyand de Terracina. After Easter, of course, the company 
will be the same as at a similar period last year, when 
Donizetti's Opera Le Lucia di Lammermoor, so eminently 
successful in Paris at present, will be produced. The season is 
expected to be one of unusual brilliance, in consequence of the 
Queen's residence in Loudon, and the Coronation, which will 
render London more gay than for many season's past. 

Should Laporte be unable to complete his intended 
arrangements, the company, before Easter, will consist of part 
of the Opera BufFa Company, with additions from Italy; when 
some of the light Comic Operas new in this country will be 

It has been reported that an engagement has been made 
with Duprez, but from the immense houses he continues to 
attract in Paris, we think it very probable that his three 
months conge' will be bought up by the director of the 
Academie Royale de Musique. The distinguished success of 
this artiste in Paris, has induced us to prepare a short memoir 
for the information of our readers. 

Duprez, though so well known on the Italian boards, is by 
birth a Frenchman, and a pupil of the justly celebrated Choiion ; 
he made his first appearance at the Odeon, in the Opera of The 
Barber of Seville, when his future success was not predicted, 
though he was then considered as an agreeable but not brilliant 
singer ; his second appearance at the same theatre in Dun 
Juan, was more flattering, but the unlucky closing of the 
theatre suddenly stopped his career. He then went to the 
Opera Coinique, where he appeared in the Dame Blanche, and 
in the course of a month studied and played in eight new cha- 
racters, with much success ; but a want of faith on the part of 
the management, induced him to throw up his engagement, and 
leave France for Italy, where he soon appeared at Milan, in a 
translation of Rosini's Comte Ory, and excited considerable 
attention in that capital, from the beauty and flexibility of his 
voice. We believe this was the only opera he then performed in 
at Milan^ its success rendering another production unnecessary, 
which may also in a great measure be attributed to that Opera 
being then new in Italy. In the year 1831, Linari being 
anxious to produce the Opera of Guilliaume Tell, engaged 
Duprez for the theatres of Lucca and Florence, the per- 
formances of which added considerably to his reputation ; he 
afterwards performed at Trieste, in Auber's Muette de 
Poriici, so well known in this country as Massaniello ; the 
music of this beautiful Opera being then new at Trieste, 
Duprez' s success was very great, and induced several com- 
posers to write parts for him ; and amongst others we may 
mention Parisina, in which he performed the part of Hugo ; 
Lies de Castro, when he played Peter the Cruel ; Lara, and 
the beautiful Opera of the Lucia de Lammermoor, which owes 
so much of its reputation to Duprez' s excellent singing in the 
part of Eclgard. 

He was subsequently engaged at Naples, and performed 
with Madame Malibran in Norma, and Lies di Castro ; the 
principal characters of which were written for both of them ; 
and after an absence of seven years from his native country, he 
received an offer from the manager of the Academie Royale de 
Musique, his acceptance of which led to Adolphe Nourrit's 
retirement from that theatre. 

Duprez' first appearance at the Academic Roynle, took 
place on the 17th of April 1837, in the Opera of Guilluume Tell, 



when he was received in a manner alino!<t unequalW<l \n 
tlieatrical annals, and from that cvenini^ until the present day, 
the houses have been crowded to overttowing', on the nights of 
his performance, and the most extravagant prices arc still 
asked for places and boxes, his attraction seeming to increase 
with each representation. 

His second performance was in Stradella, then in Robert le 
IHable, and nfter\vnr(ls in Les Huyuenots, La Juive, and The 
Muflte de Purtici, in all of which his success has been equally 
preat. Various novelties nre also in preparation for him, 
amongst which we may mention Ginecra, the words by Scribe, 
and the music by Halevt ; Benvenute Cellini by Ukri.ioz 
and Alfred de Vignv, and a new grand Opera by Auukr, 
the name of which is, as yet, unknown. 

In person Dui'UEZ is rather short and inclining somewhat to 
stoutness, with features not very expressive, so that he owes 
all his success to his voice, which is a tenor of considerable 
compass and power, combined with a rich and pure intonation ; 
in his singing he is very energetic, and the enthusiastic manner 
in which he sings the finale to the third net of Guillaume Tell, 
has (juite an electrifying effect upon the audience. Dui'UEZ is 
married to a country-woman of his own, who is also engaged 
at the Acudemie liuyalp, and is possessed of considerable talents 
as a singer, certainly quite sufficient to have made her way to 
the station she holds at the Acadtmie, without the powerful 
assistance of her husband. Her first appearance at the 
Academie was as Alice, when her husband performed also for 
the first time as Hubert, in Robert le iJiable. 

Oi'KKA BUFFA. — These performances have been very well 
attended during the past month, several novelties having been 
produced with much success. Belly is a light opera, displaying 
Donizetti's powers as a comic composer to much advantage. 
The plot is the same as an opera produced a short time since at 
the Opera Comique in Paris, called tlie Chalet; and, subse- 
quently at Madame Vestris's as " Why don't she marry" ; 
the music, however, is of a totally different character to 
Adoli'HE Adam's, and well suited to the singers. Catone's 
openinir "ria was given with considerable effect, though we 
must confess that at times he forces his voice r.ither too much 
for so small a theatre. Lablache and Scheroni were Iviglily 
amusing as the Serjeant and his sister, and the finale a spirited 
and tasty movement, was given by Sciieroni with much feel- 
iug and expression. We must protest, however, against the 
l)and commencing au Italian opera with the overture to Fra 
IJiarnto, an union never intended by cither of the composers, 
and having no possible connection with the opera. An over- 
ture is so much a part of the opera that we cannot too much 
censure the Vandalism that substitutes another in its proper 

Le Sozzede Figaro is a revival that reflects much credit upon 
the managers of this establishment, since it is but rarely we 
have an opportunity of hearing Mozart's music to so much 
advantage ; the opera was well played, and the whole per- 
forraance went off with much spirit ; Madame Eckerlin 
pleased us more than any other part in which we had previously 
seen her, and Miss Cawse looked the page well, and sang the 
music allotted to the character with taste and judgment. 
Catone's part is not one iu which he has much opportunity 
for display, but he assisted greatly in the concerted music. 
Lablache's singing was more to our taste than his acting, 
which seemed to want case ; and in some situations he was 
rather too boisterous ; he was, however, much applauded. 

The house was well ^cd ou the occasion ; the opera seem- 

ing to afford much gratification to those present. We may 
safely augur that it will draw good houses for some time. 

Her Majesty, the Ducliess of Camiiridoe and several of 
the leading nobility have been very constant in their attendance 
during the month, giving the theatre a more fashionable 
character thanduring the previous part of the season. 

DRURY LANE THEATRE —Wc never witnessed a more 
successful first appearance at any theatre, than that of Mr. 
Charles Kean, on the 8th ult., after a four year's absence 
from the London Stage, and we wish that we could say the 
young actor deserved this success ; but after a most careful and 
close attention to, and examination of, his performance, the 
only conclusion that we can come to is, that Mr. Kea.v is a 
man of talent, but possessing none of that powerful genius by 
which only an actor can be rendered great, and permanently 
attractive. The audience were jiredisposed to sui)port Mr. 
Charles Kkan, from their recollections of the greatness of 
his father, and from the report which had been nuide of the 
excellence of his private character. He is, we are told, a very 
amiable young man, and only devoted himself to the profession 
of the stage for the sake of his neglected mother, whom he has 
continued to support and protect. Our feeling was greatly in 
favour of Mr. Kean, and wc confess thiit on the first night of 
his performance we went to the theatre with the determination 
to be pleased with it. We have since twice seen his personation 
of the character of Ilamlet, and sense of critical duty must 
overcome private feeling; we will endeavour to speak of the 
actor without thinking of the man. 

Mr. CuARLKS Kean's Hamlet is an uneqiud and imperfect 
performance ; it has some passages of extreme beauty, but 
others of dull mediocrity. Mr. Kean seems to understand the 
passion, but not the philosophy of the part ; the scenes of 
strong emotion and excitement are given by him with much 
force and truth, but iu those exquisite philosophical speeches 
and soliloquies with which the part abounds, Mr. Kean most 
decidedly fails. Indeed we do not recollect ever having heard 
them worse spoken. The fine soliloquy commencing 
" To be or not to be, that's the question," 
was an elaborate piece of studied acting, when it is clear that it 
should be delivered as a calm and subtle argument. Hamlet is 
overpowered by the weariness of life, and is debating the 
morality of suicide with his conscience, which in the bitterness 
of his anguish he accuses of making cowards of us all. Feel- 
ing himself a coward, he certainly would not talk of the matter 
in those lond tones, and with that fierce and frantic gesticulation 
adopted by Mr. Kean. In passing, we may observe that we 
are not made cowards by conscienee, which only awakens in us 
a sense of the awful responsibility upon us, in which sense the 
self-accusation of cowardice by Hamlet is to be understood. 

Mr. Kean played the scenes with the Ghost very excellently; 
in the others, with Ophelia, at the play, and with his mother he 
was equally good ; but in the fifth act, with the exception of 
some graceful fencing, Mr. Kuan's performance was tame, 
lachrymose, and ineffective. We are inclined to consider Mr. 
Charles Kean an acciuisition to the London stage ; but he 
will never enjoy the same reputation as his father did. 

Mr. BucKSTONE has appeared at this theatre. We think It 
a pity that he should have left the Adelphi, where he was seen 
and heard to so much better advantage than here. His 
ambition has, we fear, o'erleaped itself. A very funny fare* 
from his pen, entitled " Our Mary Anne,'' has been produced. 
Th« foUowiug are the brief iucidentu of its plot : — Jonathmn 



Tanks (DuCKSTONe), the young steward to Colonel Albert, who 
has been long absent from his estates, is about to raan-y the 
village favourite, Our Mary Anne (Miss Poole). In the 
midst of his happiness he has one great anxiety, which he 
reluctantly commimicates to a brother rustic, Holomon (Mr. 
Compton), and it arises from an apprehension of the Colonel's 
return, inasmuch as he knows that Mary Anne had been a 
favourite protegee of a deceased uncle of the Colonel, who had 
directed his nephew to make her his wife at a proper age. 
Solomon sets him at ease by the assurance that the Colonel will 
surely never come back. The marriage takes place, but at the 
moment home comes the Colonel, determined to find an angel in 
Our Mary Anne, and espouse her. At the same time a lady of 
fashion, whom tlie Colonel had previously declined to see, lest 
he should be deluded into love with a sophisticated daughter of 
the world, but who, nevertheless, entertains a passion for him, 
comes also to the village, determined, in masquerading the 
peasant girl, to try and win the truant soldier. The result is, 
that she is taken by the Colonel for Mary Anne, and at once 
wins both his heart and an offer of his hand. Meanwhile the 
Colonel hears that Mary Anne is married to his steward, and 
Jonathan Tanks, on the other hand, learns that the Colonel has 
been taking liberties with the same heroine. Their mutual 
rage, but especially Tunks despair, form the subject-matter of 
the laughable in the piece Buckstone, in both his first 
exultations, in his apprehensions and his despair, was exces- 
sively amusing. The conclusion is happy for all parties, by the 
appearance, at the same time, of the true and pseudo-Mary 
Anne, and a plain eclaircissement makes all happy. 

COVENT-GARDEN. — The opera of Amilie continues its 
successful career. Mr. Macready has revived another of 
Shakspeare's plays, King Lear, and in the correct and beau- 
tiful style of his previous productions. The play which has 
been been always given at our theatres as Shakspeare's King 
Lear is a wretched alteration of that exquisite tragedy by 
various persons, the plot being considerably altered, some of 
the finest passages left out, and some mawkish scenes intro- 
duced. Mr. Macready is greatly to be praised for his revival 
of the tragedy as Shakspeare wrote it, and we feel confident 
that it will be a great attraction for a very long time to come. 
It is splendidly acted, Mr. Macready himself sustains the 
character of the aged and doting King with exquisite ability. 
He appears the very being himself whom Shakspeare has so 
finely painted, started again into actual life ; nothing can be 
finer, more true, more touching, than his whole performance. 
The pantomime here is an object of great attraction ; chiefly 
by reason of the Diorama, painted by Mr. Stanfield, a series 
of beautiful views, the like of which had never before been 
exhibited upon the stage. 

OLYMPIC. — Madame Vestris is carrying on her cam- 
paign very successfully ; several new burlettas have been pro- 
duced since our last notice, of which the principal are, Puss in 
Boots, Shocking Events, and The Black Domino. The first is 
founded on the well-known nursery tale, and is a very mirth- 
moving and agreeable little piece. The second affords Mr. 
Farren and Mr. Keeley good opportunities for the exercise 
of their humourous talents of the first in the character of an 
experimental surgeon, the other as a dumb youth to be operated 
upon. The plot of The Black Domino is ingenious : — Julio de 
Calatravera (C. Mathews), a young Spaniard, has refused the 
hand of a rich heiress whom he has never seen, in consequence 
of a violent passion he has imbibed for a fair incognita (Madame 
Vestris) whom he has met in a black domino. At a masked 

ball, with which the piece opens, she again appears : he can 
learn nothing from her, save that her name is Camilla, that she 
must quit the ball at 12 o'clock, and that she must then bid 
him adieu for ever. To detain her he puts the clock back, and 
manages to make her attendant depart. She stops a few 
minutes after the time, but, hearing distant clocks strike, 
rushes from the room in the greatest terror. Uneasy at being 
alone so late in the streets of Madrid, she seeks refuge at a 
house with a door standing invitingly open. There she finds an^ 
old housekeeper, Dorothea, who is waiting the return of her 
master, as also the arrival of Gregorie, a convent porter, tO' 
whom she is secretly married. This good lady, being bribed 
with a diamond ring, consents to shelter her young guest, and 
invests her with a servant's dress, intending to pass her off as- 
his own niece. Presently the master, Fernando Gomez, a dash- 
lug officer, returns, bringing witli him a party of friends, 
among whom is Julio. Of course the latter is much astonished 
at finding his incognita here, filling the office of servant. She 
manages to elude him, and conceals herself in Dorothea's apart- 
ment. Gregorio enters intoxicated, and as he draws near his 
wife's chamber door, the incognita, now arrayed in the " black 
domino," rushes out. He takes her for an evil spirit, and nt 
her request readily gives up the convent keys. On the follow- 
ing morning Julio calls at the convent, when the lady he has 
refused is about to take the veil ; he begins to explain his un- 
gallant conduct, and is thunderstnick when the novice, throw- 
ing her veil aside, discovers the features of the incognita. The 
lady, as may be supposed, does not take any vows but those of 
matrimony, and Julio is made happy with a wife and a large 
fortune. There is much ingenuity in making Camilla pass 
through the piece in an almost spirit-like capacity, and render- 
ing the audience nearly as anxious as the lover to ascertain who 
she is. At one time the weight of evidence tends to make her 
the wife of Baron Elsenheim (W. Vining), another it is sup- 
posed that she is the Queen of Spain. As the bills merely 
style her " the black Domino," room is left for every possible 
conjecture. Vestris played the part of The Black Dominio, 
with all her wonted archness and spirit, and sang some new 
melodies very delightfully. 

ADELPHI. — Mrs. Nisbett has become a member of Mr. 
Yates's company (the Haymarket having closed for the season) 
and has appeared in a pretty little burletta, called All for Love, 
or, The Lost Pleiad, with very good effect. Her character, 
however, is but an imitation of the one she sustains so very 
admirably in Mr. Knowles's Love Chace ; its principal object 
being to torture and annoy a humble peasant who loves her. 
The plot is very slight. A female star is sent down to earth to 
subdue a man's heart ; but she becomes enamoured of the 
selected youth, and for his sake forfeits her immortality. The 
piece was very showily got up, and may be considered an attrac- 
tion. It is a translation of the French piece, La Fille deL'air. 

CITY OF LONDON. — While Vestris reigns queen in the 
west, Mrs. Honey is equally popular in her soTcreignty in the 
east ; her theatre being crowded every night, and with excellent 
company. So great, indeed, has been her success, that she 
has purchased the interest of her partner in the speculation, 
and is now sole lessee, for three years, at the rent, we are told, 
of ^1200 per annum. She has produced some very admirable 
little pieces, TTie Page of Palermo, Seventeen and Seventy, (Sj'c, 
which, by the aid of her excellent musical and dramatic talents, 
have been highly successful and attractive. Mrs. Honey has 
reached the highest point of her ambition , and must now be 
classed among the most popular favourites of the day. 





A youiip maiden's heart 

Is a rich soil, wherein lie many perns 
Hid by tlie euiiuiufr liand of nutiirc there, 
To put forth bk)SSoms in their fullest season ; 
And tho' the love of home first breaks the soil, 
With its cmhraeing tendrils clasping it, 
Other affections, strong and warm, will grow, 
While one that fades, as summer's flush of bloom, 
Succeeds the gentle bidding of the spring." 

The Star of Seville. 

Love has gone hand in hand with Hymen into many mansions 
in tlie fashionable world during the month of January, and the 
highest Lopes of many gallant beaux and lovely bdles have been 
realized, at the sacred shrine, where the ring — the symbol of 
eternity — has been given and received in token of that firm 
alliance which lasts while life lasts, and expires only with 
death. First on the list of the happy is Makia Cathkrine, 
oldest daughter of Sir Robkrt Bateson, Bart., of Belvoir 
Park, in the county of Down, and M.F. for Londonderry, who 
has become the wife of the gallant Capt. Sir Beresford B. 
McMahon, Bart., of the Scots Fusileer Guards, the ceremony 
having been performed by the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of 
Down and Connor. Another important wedding has been 
solemnized, first at All Souls Church, and then at the residence 
of the Lady Mary Petre, according to the rites of the 
Roman Catholic Church ; we allude to that between Arthur 
Hughes, Esq. (son of the late Sir R. Hughes, Bart., of 
Bargold Hill, Suffolk,) and the Hon. Anna Maria Petre. 
His Grace the Duke of Norfolk, and several other noble per- 
sonages were present at the wedding. The bridesmaids were 
the Hon. Arabella Petre, and Miss Clerk, of Southamp- 
tcm. It gives us pleasure to witness the happiness of those 
who devote themselves to the spiritual and moral instruction of 
the community ; and we rejoice heartily therefore to find that 
the Reverend R. P. Pigott, rector of Ellesfield, Hants, has 
obtained the object of all his heart's worldly desires, the hand 
of Emma Phillu-s, third daughter of the late Lieut. Gen. Sir 
F. Wilder. Hymen has waved his torch in the house of 
Viscount Sidmouth, whose youngest daughter, the Hon. 
Henrietta Ahdington, following the dictates of her young 
affections, has given her hand to T. B. Wall, Esq., late of the 
staff, in the Ionian Islands. 

The sunshine is past, and let us now discourse in the shade ; 
and gloomy must the subject be — of the triumphs of death, who 
has despoiled the houses of many of the great and good since 
our last notice. Lady Edward Bentinck is now no more. 
She was the daughter of Richard Cumberland the dra- 
matist. She married Lord Edward Bentinck, brother of 
the late and uncle of the present Duke of Portland. — Lord 
Eldon is also dead. 

The venerable Earl of Eldon now reposes with the silent 
dead ; he has passed from the world which his genius and his 
virtues so richly ornamented, and numerous are they who de- 
plore his loss. His lordship was born on the 4th of June, 
1751, and died January 13, 1838. He was attended by no 
complaint, but sunk under a gradual decay of nature. His 
lordship has left two daughters, Lody Frances Bankes and 
Lady Klizabeth Retton, the wife of Mr. Repton the archi- 
tect, and is succeeded in the title by his grandson, John Vis- 

count Encomhe, born Dec. 10, ISO."), and married Oct. 1, 
1831 , to the Hon. Loi'isA Duncomhe (second daughter of Lord 
Feversham), born Nov. 10, 1S07. His Utrd-hip (the pre- 
sent ICarl) has two daughters, one aged tliree-and-a-half years, 
the other, two years. His I^oitlship is the only son of the Hon, 
John Eldon, who died in ISOS (eldest sou of the late Chan- 
cellor) and Henrietta Elizabeth, only daughter of the lat« 
Sir Matthew Ridlev, Bart. This lady was re-married to 
James William Ferrau, Esq., Master in Chancery. The 
Chancellor had another son, the Hon. William Henrv John, 
Barrister-at-Law, who died in Jnly, 1S33, at the age of 37. 

The Fine Arts has lost a noble patron in Lord Farnborough, 
whose decease we have also to record. His lordship was ia 
his 70th year. 

The Countess of Essex, whose card parties were among the 
most agreeable of any given in the fashionable world, must now 
alas 1 be counted among tlie departed great. The poor have 
lost a great friend in her ladysliip, who had entered her 7«th 
year. She was Miss Bessett, the daughter of a former governor 
of St. Helena, and married a Mr. Stephenson a rich West 
Indian. Shortly after that gentleman's decease, she married 
the present Earl of Essex, and brought with her a fortune of 
about 40,000/. Incompatibility of temper was assigned as the 
cause of separation. 

There are some marriages of considerable importance said to 
be upon the tapis. Among others it is said that the heiress. 
Miss Burdett Coutts, for whom all the beaux at home and 
abroad are sighing, will give her hand to the Maniuis of DouRO, 
the Duke of Wellington's son. — Viscount Earlsford, 
eldest son of the Earl of Clonmel, will shortly lead to the 
altar the Hon. Annette Burgh, the beautiful and accom- 
plished daughter of Lord Downes. The young Viscount 
attained his majority a few weeks since, and the lady has just 
completed her eighteenth year.— It is rumcmred at Vienna that 
the Archduke Stephen is about to be united to the Grand 
Duchess Mary, daughter of the Emperor Nicholas. 


Floranthe, we would recommend to take more time in finishing 
her compositions : there are original ideas in her little poem, 
but they are not very happily expressed. 

The Story of an Opera Box will be acceptable ; but " no 
scandal about Queen Elizabeth," we hope. 

The gallant Captain, named by * "^ * (Lower Brook Street), 
is certainly not connected with "The World of Fashion," and 
as certainly the poem referred to was not written by him. 

Ladies' Favours is pretty ; and we will accept it if the writer 
will put it into prose. 

Henricus is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
signifying nothing. 

We have a thousand apologies to make to the Hon. Miss B., 
for our apparent neglect of her communication. The fact is, 
we had mislaid part of the article, but, the lost treasure is come 
to light, and next month we hope to have the pleasure of 
introducing it to our readers. 

Hi/ron and the Beauties is declined. 

Many thanks to Mira. The enclosure shall receive our best 

Mary probably in our next. 

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Fig. 1. — Robe of corbould blue ; the corsage is deeply 
pointed, cut low ia the bust, and trimmed round the top with 
blond lace, which forms a novel ornament in the centre. 
Manche a la vielle cour, decorated with flowers, knots of ribbon, 
and a blond lace manchette. The hair dressed a la Sevigne, is 
decorated with a cordon of roses. Scarf mantelet, lined and 
ttimmed with swans" -down. 

Fig. 2. — White satin robe, the border finished with a deep 
flounce of real lace, and the front of the skirt trimmed en 
tablier with lace ; it is terminated upon the flounce by a knot of 
oiseau ribbon and a flower. The corsage deeply pointed at bot- 
tom, and draped a la Seifign^ at top, is ornamented on the 
shoulder with knots of ribbon ; the drapery of the corsage is 
formed of reseau, as is also the biais that ornament the sleeves. 
The latter are terminated with lace manchettts a la Venitienne. 
Head-dress of hair, ornamented with flowers. 

Fig. 3. — Robe of emerald green satin raye, the border is 
trimmed with a deep bias floimce, low tight corsage and sleeves 
a Venfant, with embroidered tulle cuffs. Evening pelerine of 
of embroidered tulle, lined with green satin, and trimmed with 
a tulle niche. Head-dress a black velvet bonnett Cctstillon, 
trimmed with black lace and roses. 


4. — A back view of Fig. 5. 

5. — Bridal Coiffure. — The hair dressed in ringlets at the 
sides, and a tuft of bows behind, is ornamented with the bridal 
veil of blond lace, a cordon of pearls, a sprig of orange blos- 
soms, and white roses. 

6. — Pea- green satin robe, trimmed with a pelerine Eind man- 
chettes of blond lace. Head-dress of hair adorned with flowers. 



Fig 1. — Robe of lemon-coloured reps Indian ; alow corsage, 
and short full sleeve, trimmed with Mechlin lace. The skirt is 
finished with a double flounce. The head-dress is a black lace 
bonnet Flamand, trimmed in a light style with flowers, black 
satin ribbons, and black lace lappets. Black velvet mantelet en 


Fig. 1. — Pelisse robe of striped silk ; it is of two shades of 
green, a dead and bright stripe alternately ; the front of the 
skirt is trimmed in a very novel manner with black lace and 
coqites, and bands of green ribbon. High corsage, partially 
open in fi-ont, and disposed in folds. Sleeves demi-large. 
White rep velvet hat, a long ovcil brim, delicately trimmed with 
flowers ; a bouquet of saules marabous adorns the crown. 


Fig. 3 — Pink velvet robe, corsage a trois piece, cut very low, 
and trimmed with a blond lace tucker. White satin hat, a 

round and large brim, the interior is decorated in a very novel 
style ; the crown is profusely ornamented \\ith long flat ostrich 
feathers. Blond lace scarf. 


4. — Costume de Spectacle. — Robe of fawn-coloured 

striped sUk ; the corsage partially hiih, and displaying a che- 
misette a la Vierge, is trimmed in a novel style with black lace, 
and cherry-coloured ribbon. Manche a colons, terminated by 
black lace. Black velours epingle hat, decorated with black 
satin ribbon, and a bird of Paradise. 

5. — Half Dress Cap of tulle blonde, trimmed with pink 
ribbons and roses. 

6. — A back riew of the above head-dress. 

7. — A back view of Fig. 1. 


EVENING dress. 

Fig. 1. — The robe is of French white satin, the border 
trimmed with a flounce of the same material, with a row of 
Mechlin lace falling over as a binding, upon which full-blown 
roses ars Iciid at regvdar distances. Mantelet and Capuchon of 
lilack quadriUed velvet, liued with rose-coloured satin, and 
trimmed with rich broad black fringe. Head-dress, a German 
peasant's cap, decorated with foliage, and gerbes of flowers. 


Fig. 2. — Open robe of pink Victoria silk, over a satin petti- 
coat of the same colour ; the robe is s.riped with gold, and 
both it and the petticoat are trimmed with gold blond lace, 
corsage a Vantique ; short tight sleeves, both trimmed en suite. 
Head-dress of hair decorated with diamond epis, and gold 
blond lappets. 

evening dress. 

Fig. 3. — Blue rep velvet robe, trimmed with two flounces of 
black lace. Head-dress of hair, ornsimented with black lace, 
partly floating loose, and partly entwined with chefs d'or ; 
three gold pins placed on one side, complete the coiffure. Short 
mantle and Capuchon, lined and trimmed with ermine. 
half-length figures. 

4. — Social Party Dress. — White gros de Naples robe ; 
stomacher and cuff's of azure velvet. Head-dress of hair, orna- 
mented with white and green flowers. 

5. — Ball Dress. — Robe of green crape ; low and square 
corsage, pointed at bottom, and trimmed with flowers. Short 
sleeves terminated by a boullon manchette of white tulle, the 
bouillon formed by flowers. Coiffure a la Berthe, decorated 
with two gerbes of flowers, placed in different directions. 

6. — Evening Dress. — Robe of straw-coloured rehurs 
epingle, trimmed with Mechlin lace. Head-dress of hair, 
decorated with a bui-nished gold tiara, and white ostrich 





Fig. 1 . — Robe of Iiuliaii kitcii rep velvet, the liorilcr trimmed 
with Eii(,'lish point laco ; tiglit corsage, decorated witli n lace 
drapery, wliieh is fastened by jewelled aijra/cs a.nil Turuds de paije 
of ribbon to correspond. Short sleeves, trimmed with knots of 
ribbon, auJ point lace ruffles. Italian turban of silver blond 


Fig. 2. — White satin robe, bordered with ermine. Tunic of 
pale blue velours r'lunglp, embroidered in silk to correspond, and 
trimmed with ermine all round. Ribbon arranged in a peculiar 
style forms an open fuhlipr down the front. Head-dress, a 
chapeaii Caslilinn of violet velvet, the interior of the biim deco- 
rated with gold grapes and their foliage ; the crown trimmed 
with a bird of Paradise, and a knot of velvet with flouting ends. 


Fig. 3. — White tulle robe over white satin, both are trimmed 
with ruches of tulle, knots of ribbon loop the robe, and the 
pocket holes are bordered with flowers. Corsage ii la Orecquc. 
Coiffure a la Setignr, adorned with flowers. 


Fig. 4. — Robe de Chumbre of dark-green striped silk, lined 
with straw-coloured yros de NapUs. Tulle cap, trimmed with 
straw-coloured ribbon. 

Fig. 5. — Green satin pelisse, trimmed with velvet. Straw- 
coloured satin capote Victoria, ornamented with flowers. 

Fig. 6. — High robe of striped silk ; white satin hat, a 
round brim : the interior trimmed en bonnet, with bloud lace 
and flowers ; gerbes of flowers ornament the crown. 



Fig. 1. — White lace robe over while satin; Manfenon a 
Capuchon of blue rep velvet, lined with viseau s.itin, and trimmed 
with knots of viseau satin ribbon. Head-dress, a round cap, 
composed of black lace, and trimmed with roses and pale rose 


Fig. 2. — Robe of green striped silk ; black velvet mantle, 
lined with ruby gros de Naples, and trimmed with black love. 
White satin wadded bonnet, ornamented with blond lace and 
flowers ; the crown is trimmed with a blond lace drapery, and 
white satin ribbons. 


Fig. 3. — Violet cloth pelisse of a peuliarly fine texture ; 
ticht corsage, and sleeves made moderately wide. The corsage 
and the front of the skirt is ornamented with fancy silk trim- 
ming to correspond ; sable muff ; hat of i^cru rep velvet, 
trimmed with an ostrich feather and ribbons to correspond. 


4. — Morning Dress. — Lilac satin robe; mantelet to cor- 
respond, trimmed with swan's-down. Pearl grey satin hat, 
ornamented with wliite featliers, shaded with grey. 

5. — A back view of tlie next figure. 

6. — Evening Dress. — Piuk satin robe; a pointed corsage, 
«ut low, and trimmed with a pelerine mantelet of pointe d'appU- 
ration, and butterfly knots of satin ribbon. Short sleeves, 
trimmed with manchettes, and knots en suite. The hair is 
<leeorated with fancy jewellery, foliage, and wliite ostricii 



Our fair readers will perceive by our prints that we do not 
exaggerate when we say that the dress of our fair fashionables 
is at present of tlie most splendid description, sueh, in fact, 
as befits the eomnu'ucement of the reign of a young and 
beauteous Queen : long may siie continue to be our model for 
all tlmt is elegant and graceful in woman, as well as all that is 
noble and excellent as a Sovereign. We have but little to say 
to our fair readers on 

Carriage Hats and Bonnets. — Both are more remark- 
able for their elegance than for their novelty ; although a num- 
ber of materials have appeared for them, yet velvet, rep velvet, 
and satin, are almost the only ones adopted. Hats have not 
varied in size. We observe that those which have the interior 
of the brim trimmed with flowers only, are not now so generally 
adopted as those ornamented with an intermixture of blond 
lace and flowers. We see also a good many hats, particularly 
black velvet ones, oruaraentcd with birds of Paradise of the 
natural colours. We may cite as one of the most elegant models 
of these hats, the fourth figure in our third plate. Bonnets 
have, we think, increased in the size of the brim, since the 
weather has been so cold. A favourite style of decoration for 
satin ones is, a bouquet of velvet flowers, so placed that the 
greater part of them stand upright upon the crown, and two or 
three of a smaller size, droop, as If falling from the bouquet 
upon the brim. 

Mantles. — The manteau a la Czarina is the only novelty of 
the month ; it is composed of satin, either black or coloured ; 
in some instances it is lined with fur, the trimming, which is 
the principal novelty, consists of a very broad band of velvet, 
cut in irregular i)oints, and encircled with fur. The sleeves are 
of the demi-large kind, that we spoke of a month or two ago, 
and the pelerine very large, and pointed ; both are trimmed to 
correspond with the round of the mantle. 

Fashionable Winter Silks. — We may cite as pre- 
eminent in beauty, the satins Victoria ; they are very substantial 
silks, figured in gold and silver, resembling the trocades of a 
hundred years ago, but in less heavy patterns. There isoneia 
particular, the gold or silver of whicli is interwoven with the 
silk in such a manner that it docs not present any fixed pattern ; 
this is a very original as well as splendid silk. Rep velvet, reps, 
gros d' Alger, and above all, PfA;«'i« of different kinds: there is 
quite a rage for this last. These silks, which can be worn only 
in full dress, are generally trimmed with gold or silver blond, or 
c/ient7/e-bloud ; this last trimming is as novel as it is elegant. 

Full Dress Robes. — The forms are decidedly those of the 
decline of the seventeenth century, that is, generally speaking; 
for our Elegantes introduce without scruple, some modifications 
which are more or less becoming according to the taste with 
which they are executed, thus an ornament for the corsage 
which is perfectly novel, will be found on the robe of the first 
figure of our second plate | another modern invention is a biais 
which forms a lappcl, and supplies the place of drapery, thi."? is 
particularly advantageous to tlie shape, if the wearers figure is 
slight. Sleeves have varied little. We must, however, notice 
a very pretty and becoming sleeve which has just appeared, it 
forms a sort of juste milieu between the velvet and the amadis 
by means of four bouillons varying in size. 

Trimmings ok Flll-Dress Roues. — Our fair readers will 
see by our plates the flounces have a decided majority, never- 



thele6«, they are so disposed as to present a good deal of 
variety. Besides the different styles given in our plates we have 
noticed some flounees that were arranged so at to form points, 
the liice being gradually drawn up in one, and each being headed 
by a flower or an ornament of jewellery. We must observe that 
besides the superb laces which we have spoken of above, blond 
and real lace are very much in request. Sable fur is also par- 
tially ndopted, and ermine very much so. We refer, for one of 
the most beautiful models of the latter trimming, to the second 
figure of our fifth plate. 

Full Dress Coiffures. — A novel and very beautiful 
material for dress hats is called velours tnousse, it is used only 
in light colours, and lined with crape of a corresponding hue ; 
these hats are ornamented with two ostrich feathers of the same 
colour, placed on one side of the crown. One of the most novel 
dress hats of the season is of black velvet, the brim small and 
evasee, is placed very much on the left side, a rosette of black 
satin ribbon is placed near the cheek from which two floating 
ends descend ; three white ostrich feathers are placed on the 
right, the first upright ; the second drooping on itself, and the 
third turning in a spiral direction touches the shoulder. Two 
bands of velvet encircle the cheeks, and retain the hair. We 
must not forget to add that several of these hats are decorated 
with a new ornament in jewellery, which has a singularly novel 
and elegant efi'ect, it is a lizard composed of gold, and the spots 
formed of diamonds. A good many head-dresses are of velvet, 
either black, green, or ruby ; some are ornamented with points 
in front, and long lace lappets which fall on each side of the 
neck, and are sustained on the cheeks by flowers, velvet cuques, 
or pearl ornaments, according as the rest of the costume is more 
or less rich. Others are encircled with torsades of pearls, or 
gold, and ornamented with knots of velvet edged with gold, 
and the ends terminated by gold fringe of a beautifully light 

Fancy Black is much in favour this winter, it mingles in 
toilettes of all descriptions, and when it is impossible to make 
it an important accessory, a velvet ribbon is worn round the 
throat fastened in front by a large diamond or any other precious 
stone. A style of fancy black much in vogue in evening dress, 
is a black blond lace robe, open in front, and worn over an 
under-dress of white, pink, blue, or rose-coloured satin. Knots 
of satin ribbon with two floating ends sufficiently long to reach 
from one knot to another, retains the skirt of the lace robe on 
each side : the knots are always the colour of the under dress. 

Ball Deess Materials. — Crapei, tulle, and various kinds 
of gauze, in particular grenadine gauze of the very richest kind, 
also satin striped gauze, and gauzes spotted and figured in 
colours, in gold and in silver ; we may add, also, blond lace 
both black and white. The colours [adopted in ball-dress are 
always light, blue, rose, apple green, and lilac, but above all, 

Forms of Ball Dress Robes. — We cannot do better than 
quote some of the most striking and novel of those that have 
recently appeared. A robe of grenadine gauze, a white ground 
striped in broad pink stripes, which were lightly spotted with 
silver ; a tight corsage, partially covered by a drapery of white 
gauze, which, crossing in folds on one side of the bosom, 
descended on the other side the whole length of the skirt. It 
was spotted and fringed with silver, the fringe of a very light 
but rich kind ; the under-dress, of white satin, had short tight 
sleeves, over which those of the robe formed a manche a la demi 
Vemlienne, looped on the shoulder by fancy jewellery ornaments^ 

White crape robe, open In front, over one of white satin. The 
fronts of the skirt very far apart, and edged with ruches of rose 
ribbons. The under-dress was trimmed with a blond lace 
flounce ; a bouquet of roses was attached by a knot of ribbon 
with floating ends upon the outer robe, confining it to the under 
dress just above tlie flounce. Short sleeves, striped diagonally 
with very small ruches of rose ribbon, and trimmed with blond 
sabots. The corsage was draped, the drapery retained by knots 
of ribbon. A robe of plain white blond net over white satin. 
A tight corsage, and sleeves a V enfant. The trimming consists 
of two small scarfs of gold blond lace, one placed on each side, 
and falling gradually from the ceinture fo the bottom of the robe 
in folds like those of a curtain. Although this style of trimming 
is simple, the effect is nevertheless very graceful. 

Ball Head-Dresses are invariably of hair, they are 
dressed very low, and quite at the back of the head, the hind 
hair is generally arranged in rather a complicated manner, and 
frequently intermixed with feathers or ornaments of jewellery. 
The front hair is mostly arranged in tufts of ringlets, with 
which knots of ribbons or flowers are mingled. Several ball- 
dress coiffures are adorned with flowers only, but an intermix- 
ture of flowers with feathers, or ornaments of jewellery, is more 

Jewellery. — An ornament that we have already cited, we 
mean a lizard, has become very much in vogue for different 
uses, it is employed for the hair, for bracelets, and for ayraff'es 
of robes. We see also several round bracelets of or brum. 

CoLOtJRs A LA Mode. — Rich full hues, or very dark ones, 
as ruby, beet red, maize, violet, dark shades of grey, and black, 
are adapted for carriage and half-dress, but light ixues coutinuie 
most prevalent in evening costume. 



Our predictions of a brilliant season have been amply verifled, 
the fashionable vrinter has commenced with an unusual degree 
of gaiety and splendour ; the toilettes of our elegantes prin- 
cipally modelled after the style of the of reign Louis XIV and XV, 
are even riclier, and by judicious modifications certainly more 
elegant. Our fair readers may judge of the truth of our 
assertion, by the models we have given in our prints, and by 
the intelligence which we are about to lay before them. 

Chapeaux de Promenade. — Velvet and satin continue 
to be the favourite materials for promenade hats, the forms 
remain the same as last month. We may cite among the most 
elegant promenade hats, those oi flamme (T enfer coloured velvet, 
they are variously trimmed, but the most tasteful in our opinion, 
are those ornamented on the left side of the crown with a bird 
of Paradice, dyed black, and the interior of the brim trimmed 
with a wreath of roses of very delicate colours ; a yellow rose 
the and a rose noisette, are employed alternately ; these flowers 
increase in size as they approach the cheeks, where only a 
light blond is intermingled with them towards the bottom. 
Black velzet hats, trimmed with black satin ribbons, figured ia 
green spots, and ornamented with a black feather frosted in 
black and green, are very fashionable, and have a chaste andl 
tasteful effect. Straw coloured satin hats, trimmed with straw 
coloured dahlias, shaded with lilac, are also very much in 
vogue. We must observe that these flowers are of a large size^ 
and there is uever more than one employed for a chapeau. 



Capotks have lost nothinc; of their vopie, but they are 
eitliei- wadded or drawn, the former have the preference. Those 
of l)h»ek satin arc in a majority, they are always trimmed witii 
satin ribbons of a black ground, but fiirured in colours. Some 
of these ribbons have small running patterns of flowers, 
remarkable for their beauty ; others are of 'Egyptiaa patterns, 
and a pood many are spotted in a shower of hail pattern ; 
black and green is a favourite mixture. 

Mantklets are more than ever the mode. We scarcely see 
any thing else at the fashionable promenades of the Tuilerics, 
and the Bois de Boulogne ; they are principally of velvet, the 
favourite colours are black, deep blue, and emerald green ; the 
trimming is always of fur, corresponding with the muflF. The 
mantelet is to the elegante of our day, what the Cashmere 
shawl was to her mamma, an indication of her rank in life, or 
at least of her fortune, for those of the richest velvet trimmed 
with sable, are of a very high price. Those trimmed with grey 
srpiirrel fur, though not so expensive, are still very gentle- 
womanly ; then come the inferior furs, as mock sable, &c. &c. 
which though upon the whole expensive enough, are barely 
within the pale of fashion. 

Shawls, though not so much in request as mantelets, are 
nevertheless adapted by many elegaht women; they may be 
either of velvet or satin, but those of velvet have a decided 
preference. Those round, or pointed behind, seem equally iu 
favour; they are made with a second small collar, or pelerine; 
the ends of which descend in the lappet style, either to the 
ends of the shawl, or only as low as the waist ; they are now 
trimmed with fur only, fringe and black lace being quite 
laid aside. 

Pko.mknade Ronr.s. — la truth Mesdames, it is very diffi- 
cult to got a peep at them, so completely are the fair wearers 
enveloped in mantelets and shawls. Let us open these wraps a 
little, and see what they conceal. The corsages are tight, or 
else disposed in flat plaits ; the sleeves demi-large, the skirts 
quite as wide as ever, and most inconveniently long ; if any 
trimming is adopted, it must be a deep flounce, this, however, 
applies only to silk. Cashmere, or merino robes, for those of 
M-lvet are always trimmed with fur, which we must observe for 
robes, as for mantelets, must always correspond with the mufl". 
Cloth Pelisses. — This fashion which was revived last 
season, after a lapse of we believe more than twenty years, has 
been again brought up since the weather has become cold. 
Dark colours, as bottle green, deep blue, and a new shade of 
grey, are the most in favour ; the dress is always lined with 
gros de Naples, of some full hue, as tlie different shades of red 
or yellow, and trimmed either with fur, or brandeburgs ; the 
latter apjiear to have a preference ; we do not mean to say that 
they are more numerous, but they are more generally adopted 
by elegant women. These pelisses are exceedingly well adapted 
to promenade dress, and we have no doubt tliat as the season 
advances, they will become very general. 

CoiRT CosTiJMK. — As trains and lappets are abandoned, 
the costume of tlic court of France offers at present the most 
superb state of full dress, with a degree of variety which was 
formerly unknown. We must premise, that the costumes are a 
melange, and, indeed, a most graceful one of the ancient and 
miKlern style ; they have the meekness and dignity of the first, 
with the ease and grace of the latter ; as our fair readers will 
see by tlie details we are about to give them. 

Dkmi Toilette. — Tlie materials most generally in favour 
at this moment, are striped silks, the most part are striped In 

different shades of the same colour, and these are perhaps the 
most distingue; some are of satin, others in gros grains, 
plain or figured. Those that are of striking colours, have 
almost always a narrow black stripe, alternately with one of 
ponceau, blue, green, &c. A favourite style of trimming for 
these dresses, consists of a very deep bias flounce, the heading 
of which is variously disposed, in some it falls over, forming a 
second but very narrow flounce, in others it is arranged en 
bouillonnc'e, and we have seen it also disposed iu puffi. 

Robes, were of rich silks and velvets, the former either 
figured or embroidered ; a good many were of white satin, with 
flounces of gold or silver blond lace, or else trimmings of those 
rich laces forming a iablier, or disposed in drapery on one 
side of the skirt. A second row of very narrow la'-e formed a 
heading to the flounces. Another mode of arranging flounces, 
which was particularly adapted for those of English point lace, 
was to raise them in drapery on one side, by a knot composed 
of a great number of small coqnes of ribbon. In some 
instances also, flounces were mixed in the same manner on both 
sides, but they were attached by bouquets of flowers instead of 
knots and ribbons. 

Corsages were almost all pointed and tight to the shape ; 
a narrow lisere round the waist replaced the ceinture. The 
falling tuckers of lace were almost all cut plain, in the same 
form as the top of the corsage. Short tight sleeves terminated 
with a double or triple trimming of the munchctle kind, corres- 
ponding with the flounces. 

Turbans had a majority, and in truth" their elegance and 
splendour deserved it. Some were of tulle embroidered iu 
gold, others in point d' Angleterre, or in dentille de Soie. They 
were composed of scarfs, the ends of which for the most part 
fell on each side iu the veil stile ; sometimes also, those little 
falling draperies were ornamented with roses intermingled with 
diamonds, or with bouquets of precious stones, which were 
interwoven with the hair. A turban in white reseau, of the 
lightest and clearest kind, was ornamented on one side with a 
long sprig of small blue holly, with diamond hearts, which 
drooped on the cheek, and had a beautiful effect ; but those 
that were the most admired were composed of the gold tissue, 
or Cashmere scarfs brought from Algiers or Constantina. 

Chapeaux. — The most remarkable were of cherry coloured, 
blue, or white velvet, the crowns very small and very low, with 
a brim perfectly round and very narrow ; they were trimmed 
cither with ostrich feathers, marabouts or sau/es neigrs. These 
hats are quite of the antique form and new style. Chapels are 
placed on one side of the head, discovering on the other a full 
tuft of ringlets, in which a flower or a knot of diamonds is 

Coiffures en Cheveux were dressed very low behind, 
some were ornamented with lappets of gold or silver blond lace, 
placed very near the nape of the neck on one side of the 
chignon, and falling on the shoulders and the back ; some of 
these lappets were surmounted by a sprig or flower, either of 
pearls or diamonds. The front hair was dressed either a la 
Anglaise, or en Berthe, the tresses which formed the most part 
of the latter, entirely encircled the ear, and were rounded off so 
as to join the knot at the back of the head. 

Miscellaneous. — The fans oftercd a rich and splendid 
variety of patterns and styles. The mouchvirs de porhe were 
embroidered with uncommon elegance. T\it gloves were 
trimmed with ribbons, blond lace, or marabouts. Shoes of whit* 
satin, with the tops half rounded. 











Safe on his darling country's joyful sea, 
Behold the hero plough his liquid way ; 
The fleet in thunder through the world declare 
Whose empire they obey, whose arms they bear. 
In various tongues he hears the captain's dwell 
On his high praise ; by turns they tell, 
And listen, each with emulous glory fired, 
How Exmouth conquered, and the foe retired. 

The peerage of Exmouth is of recent date, and it derives its 
origin from the great deeds of one of England's naval heroes, 
•whose combined valour have made Britannia " Queen of the 
Seas." The family name of Lord Exmouth is Pellew, but 
it is not necessary for our purpose that we go far back into 
its history, because the late Lord Exmouth was the first mem- 
ber of the family who publicly distinguished himself, and was 
publicly rewarded. We need only state, then, that Edward 
Pellew, second son of Samuel Pellew, Esq., entered the 
naval service at a period when the youth of Britain had abun- 
dant opportunities afforded them for winning names in arms, 
and earning also the gratitude of their countrymen. He was 
very young when he first trod the quarter-deck, but his activity 
and intrepidity soon made him the " observed of observers," 
and won for him the " golden opinions" of his associates in the 
career of glory. He rose step by step in his profession, and 
having captured the French frigate, Cleopatra, after a severe 
struggle, was knighted for his heroic conduct. Stimulated by 
this to renewed exertions, and success still waiting upon his 
arms, he was created a baronet on the 6th of March, 1796. 

It is not our purpose to go through the whole of the splendid 
career of this distinguished man, for the shortest description 
that we could give of his memorable deeds, his bravery, shrewd- 
ness, and his humanity, would occupy more than the whole of 
our pages. Let it suffice, then, that he was not less remark- 
able for his benevolence at home, than for his bravery upon the 
sea, and that many actions are recorded of his private life 
which fully prove him to have been one of the best as well as 
one of the bravest of men. He succeded in rescuing the crew 
of a wrecked East Indiaman, oif Plymouth, by his intrepidity. 

He rose by degrees to the rank of Admiral of the Blue, and 
on the 1st of June, 1814, was elevated to the peerage by the 
title of Baron Exmouth, of Cannonteign, in the county of 
Devon. The expedition against Algiers having being determined 
upon by the government, it was found that Lord Exmouth 
was the officer most likely to conduct it to a successful issue. 
Accordingly, it was placed under his command, and the result 
fully realised all the expectations which tliose who knew the 
Vol. XVI. 

character of the distinguished Admiral had entertained. His 
Lordship succeeded in destroying the fleet and arsenal of Algiers, 
and in redeeming the Christian slaves detained by the Dey. 
He returned victorious to his native country, and was received 
with the loudest and most grateful approbation of the British 
public. The government also deemed it advisable to advance 
the gallant Admiral in the peerage, and, accordingly, on the 
21st of September, 1816, he was created Viscount Exmouth. 
He had also at various periods the following additional honours 
conferred upon him :— K. G. C. B. ; K. C. S. ; K. F. M. ; and 
K. W. He was born on the 19th of April, 1759. His lady 
was Susannah, daughter of James Frowd, Esq., by whom 
he had the following family. 

1. Pown all Bastard. 

2. Fleetwood Broughton Reynolds, a naval officer, 
born Dec. 13, 1789, and was married in 1816 to Har?,iet, 
daughter of the late Sir Godfrey Webster, Bart., and 
Elizabeth, the present Lady Holland. 

3. George, in holy orders, was born April 3, 1793, and 
married, in 1820, to Frances, second daughter of Henry, 
Viscount Sidmouth. 

4. Edward, in holy orders, was born Nov. 3, 1790, and 
married, in 1826, to Mary Anne, daughter of Stephen 
Winthorp, Esq., M.D. 

5. Emma Mary, who in 1803 was married to Admiral Sir 
Lawrence William Halstead, K.C.B. 

6. Julia, who was married, in 1810, to Captain R. Har- 
wnoD, R.N. 

Transitory is human life, and true it is that " the paths of 
glory lead but to the grave." The hero falls like other men, and 
alike becomes feeble and sinks into the arms of death. Time 
plants deep furrows on the cheeks ; years cover the head with 
silvery whiteness ; the curving spine bows the face to the earth 
as if looking for a grave to rest in ; all these, the wrinkled 
cheek, the bleached head, and the stooping frame, are the ap- 
propriate accompaniments of old age, and are as beautiful in 
the system of life as winter with its leafless trees and frozen 
streams in the system of the seasons. And Lord Exmouth, 
he who had been so active, and brave, and bold, passed through 
this winter of human life, and reposes now in the silent tomb. 

PowNALL Bastard Pellew, now Viscount Exmouth, 
was born on the 1st of July, 1786 ; he devoted himself to the 
naval profession, but the termination of the war closed all op- 
portunities for distinguishing himself. He was married, first 
in 1808, to Eliza Harriet, eldest daughter of Sir George 
HiLARO Barlow, Bart. This marriage was dissolved in 
1820, several children having been previously born, of whom 
Edward is the eldest. His Lordship married, secondly, 
in 1822, Georgiana Janet, eldest daughter of Mungo 
Dick, Esq. 

The arms of Lord Exmouth are, gu, a lion passant, guard- 
ant in chief, two chaplets of laurel or, on a chief of augmenta- 
tion, wavy. A representation of Algiers, with a British man 
of war before it, all ppr. Crest : Upon the waves of the sea, 
the wreck of the " Dutton" East Indiaman, upon a rocky 
shore ofiF Plymouth Garrison, all ppr. Supporters : Dexter, a 
lion rampant, gardant or, navally crowued az, resting the dexter 



ff)ot upon a dcrrcscent ar ; Sinister : a male fiirurc representing 
slavery, trowsei-s ur, striped iiz, llie nppcr part of tlie l)o<ly 
naked, holdinti: "' t'lc dexter liand tjroken cliains ppr., the 
sinister arm elevated, and holding a eross or. Mottoes : Over 
the erest, " Deo udjutanic ;^'' under the shield, Algiers. 
Lord lixMOUTii's scat is at Trevetry, Cornwall. 


Years had gone by — his hair was grey, 
Who soufjht apaiii the much lov'd spot. 
Where youth's first hours had passed away 
'Mid friends who ne'er might be forgot. 
The patti he trod — he knew it well, 
The ancient oak its shade still shed ; 
15ut those he sought no one could tell, 
liut wondering answered — " They were dead." 

He sought the cot of one he'd left, 
A laugliing merry-hearted thing ; 
Who Ticar his youtliful heart had crept, 
As tendril round a (lower of spring ! 
W here is she now ? Tiie laughing voice, 
The happy, tripjiiiig, blithesome tread, 
No longer bids his heart rejoice, 
But echo whisiiers — " She is dead 1" 

His sisters, say, ah where arc they, — 

Companions of his youtliful hours ? 

He sought them where they used to play, 

But sad and cheerless were the bowers. 

The trees they'd planted side by side, 

Now proudly waved above his head; 

He asked, " Where arc they ?" they replied, 

" Thy sisters, wanderer — they are dead !" 

He turned away — his brother dear, 
The boy his mother doated on ; 
How is it that he is not here, 
To welcome back tlie wandering one ? 
He called him by Ids well known name, 
But echo answered in his stead — 
Again the chilling response came, 
" Thy brother, wanderer — he is dead !" 

His sire was full of manhood's pride 
When he had left, a boy, his home, 
His mother's cheek had time defied. 
He fondly thought, for years to come; 
He sought them both, but there alas, 
Within the churchyard's narrow bed, 
A tombstone told him as he passed, 
*' Thy parents, wanderer — they are dead !" 

ILe sought again the ancient hall, 
M'here desolation held her sway. 
And heard tlie owl's dull croaking call, 
And bats against the easement play. 
His footsteps on the marble floor 
Aroused th' intruders, and they fled ; 
Shriekintr, " thy friends, they are no more, 
Maid, brother, sisters - all arc dead !" 




Young Tyrant and young torturer ! 

Young Love ! how can it be 
That such extremes and opposites 

Sh(«d(l meet ami mix in thee ? 
Thou of the rainbow wing! whose reign 

Is as the colours there. 
Since thou hast such delight in pain. 

How ean'st thou be so fair ? L. 

E. L. 

Love, they say, makes people blind ; and certainly, to judge 
of people's eye-sight by their actions, we should say that 
the saying is true. Grace P.iget was undeniably blind, 
although >lie had a pair of the brightest eyes that were 
visible in the whole parish of St. James's. She was blind, 
positively blind, for she suffered Sir Roger Terapleton to run 
awny with her cousin at the very moment when she imagined 
that he was enamoured of herself. Grace Paget was a flirt : 
she i)rcferred " twenty shillings to one sovereign ;" or, in other 
words, wouli'l rather see a (juantity of lovers at her feet than 
one the lonl of her heart ; that is to say, before Sir Roger 
appeared, for then away went the flirt, and Grace Paget, the 
woman and her woman's heart stood confessed, for woman, 
though she be prude or coquette, has a heart heating in her 
bosom, and a heart to be awakened to love. Many were the 
lovers whom she reduced to despair, aiul at whose agony she 
laughed : many were tlicy who declared that they would destroy 
themselves, being rejected by her, and Grace very politely 
off'ered the use of her papa's carriage to convey them to the 
druggist's to buy the laudanum. But Grace fell in love herself 
at last, and would you believe it, with a plain, formal, modest 
country gentleman : a man who had never crossed the threshold 
of Almack's — who had never heard the Giulietta — and to whom 
St. James's was a land as unknown as the islands of Owyhee ! 
There is no accounting for tastes : Grace Paget had seen men 
of title at her feet — had heard the »«/ohs of King-street, St. 
James's, filled with the murmured expressions of her beauty — 
had seen her opera-box filled with the elite of fashionable 
society, and yet she fell in love with a plain downright country 
baronet, who had nothing more than a simple honest heart, 
and a very large fortune to off'er her. 

To be sure folks did say that Grace Paget had progressed 
beyond her thirtieth year considerably, and that the bloom upon 
her cheek, and the deej) tint of her curls were not altogether 
the work of nature, but that is scandal, and we never give cur- 
rency to talk of that description. No matter what the age of 
Grace Paget was ; no matter whence came her beauty, it is 
enough for us to know that she was considered " a beauty," 
and might have married an exquisite lord without money, 
altho\igh for a reason best known to herself, she chose to fall in 
love with a simple baronet with a fortune. 

Now Sir Roircr Templcton had not been considered a marry- 
ing man : he belonged to the set composed of the Devonshires 
and Pan mures, not altogether regardless of the charms of 
lovely woman, but still resolutely opposed to matrimony. But 
Sir Roger was not a male flirt — that most odious of mascidine 
characters — he loved retirement and quiet, and he had heard 
that a wife w(>uld lead a man into company, and a great deal of 
confusion, and he therefore determined to remain a l)achelor. 
Sir Roger <ind Grace Paget met at a country ball : she had 



gone thither by way of killinpr time, not expecting to meet with 
any one there c!ij)able of engaging her attention. She fancied 
that the ijaucherie of the country belles, and the Adunisisnis of 
the ccnintry Ijcaux would constitute an agreeable farce, and 
without caring particularly about dress, or taking particular 
pains to set off her charms to advantage, she and her cousin 
Ellen Grantley accompanied Colonel Grantley, the uncle of 
Grace (whom she was visiting), to the ball. 

She joined a quadrille, but as she could not condescend to 
dance in such company, she majestically stalked through the 
figures, and by her haughty demeanour attracted general 
observation. To be sure, there were many gentlemen and 
some ladies in the company who could not dance at all, but who 
nevertheless endeavoured to make up for their deficiency of 
Terpsichorcan knowledge by an immense quantity of motion, 
some of which was of an extraordinary character indeed : there 
were one or two slim young gentlemen jerking themselves into 
every place but the right, not only when they were expected to 
move, but also when they were not : and also some robust and 
rtorid youths, with their hair turned up a la Brutus, and their 
coats thrown back, who, with very innocent but very expres- 
sive looks, kept their arms and legs in perpetual motion, think- 
ing all the while, no doubt, good simple souls, that they were 

Sir Roger Templeton was personally known to Colonel 
Grantley : they had been fellow students at college, and meet- 
ing together in the salon de danse their intimacy was renewed, 
and Sir Roger had the pleasure of dancing with Grace Paget, 
and also with her cousin Ellen. Sir Roger, though a fox- 
hunter, a brave, intrepid spirit as ever lived, was always bash- 
ful in the presence of ladies : it may be that he had but a mean 
opinion of his personal merits, and said but little from his fear 
of offending. Still, nevertheless, he was an admirer of "the 
fairest part of the creation," though he had an odd way of 
expressing his admiration : so strange indeed was his manner, 
that a woman with whom he had been conversing would feel 
inclined either to think him desperately in love with her, or 
else an utter idiot. He danced, as we have said, with Grace 
Paget, and fortune willed it that she should place the gentlest 
interpretation upon Sir Roger's embarrassed demeanour and 
broken accents. He was actually a gallant man, and upon this 
occasion he said a profusion of very flattering things to the 
young beauty, vdio was so well pleased with his artless and 
unaffected manner, that she gave up her whole heart to him 
before it was asked for. 

Sir Roger was not sensible of the conquest he had made, for 
when he danced with Ellen Grantley shortly afterwards, he 
paid similar compliments to her ; but Ellen took the unkindest 
view of his gallantry, and thought him an absolute coxcomb. 

After the ball was over, and Grace and her cousin were 
retiring to rest, the former calling Ellen aside, said, " Ellen, I 
have a secret for you." 

" Indeed," replied Ellen, " what is it ?" 

" I have another lover." 

" And pray whom may he be ? — One of the interesting young 
gentlemen whose exertions in the dance have afforded us so much 
amusement to-night 1" 

" Yes. But not one of the awkward ones. 'Tis Sir Roger 

" Indeed!" was the simple rejoinder of Ellen, who there- 
upon retired to rest, wondering how her clever cousin could 
entertain a moment's serious thought of such an absolute 
simpleton as Sir Roger. 

Sir Roger paid many visits to the house of Colonel Grantley, 
and always attached himself to the company of the ladies. 
Grace grew fonder and fonder of him every day, and even 
Ellen began to admit that it might be possible for a man to be 
not such a fool as he looks. But still she pitied Grace, who 
miglit have had a man of elegance, and higher title to, for her 
husband, had she pleased. 

Grace had tortured many hearts in the course of her beauty's 
career, and now she was herself to prove the agony of being 
slighted by the one she loved. Sir Roger Templeton did not 
love her at all. 

Still he continued his visits, and the two cousins fancied that 
he became more and more amiable every day. " Well," said 
Ellen to Grace, as they sat together in the little boudoir of the 
former, looking over divers presents which Sir Roger had sent 
to them, and which were as equally divided as the strictest jus- 
tice could desire. " Well, I cannot but think how much I was 
deceived when I thought so ill of Sir Roger : he is certainly a 
charming fellow !'' 

Grace looked at her cousin suspiciously, and replied, " Upon 
my word, Ellen, your admiration grows very fast. I shall not 
be surprised if I find a rival here." 

" And if you were, my dear Grace, I should not be much to 
blame, for you see his attentions are so equally divided, his 
presents also. . . . But dispel those frowns from that pretty 
face. I have no intention to lay baits for your admirer. And, 
besides, I have no reason to think that he would like me other- 
v/ise than as a cousin." 

" Cousins are dangerous th ngs," said Grace, but with a 
tone and air that indicated she did not fear the effect of Ellen's 
charms upon Sir Roger's heart. 

It was one beautiful summer's evening, about the beginning 
of August, and Sir Roger and Grace Paget sat alone, looking 
out from their drawing-room upon the blue sea, and the bluer 
sky, and upon each other, thinking unutterable things. It was 
twilight, and Sir Roger feeling emboldened, drew his chair 
closer to Grace, and after two or three ineffectual attempts, at 
length, in soft and broken accents, thus addressed the lady, who 
felt at the moment all that interesting sensation peculiar to the 
moment when the question is " popped." 

" Miss Paget," sighed Sir Roger, " I have — I have — some- 
thing to communicate, and upon which — which my long 
acquaintance — friendship, I trust, I may be allowed to say — 
emboldens me to consult so interesting a friend who — who, I 
am sure — can better advise me than any one else in the 

" Sir Roger,' replied Miss Paget, considerably embarrassed, 
and speaking in the same low tone as had been adojjted by the 
lover. " Sir Roger, as I presume that the subject is one that 
I can speak upon with propriety, I shall feel pleasure in being 
honoured with your confidence." 

" Generous girll" responded Sir Roger, and he drew his 
chair closer still to Miss Paget's, and taking one of her bx-auti- 
ful hands within his own, and pressing it warmly, he continued, 
" I feel that you sympathise with, and will befriend me." 

" I hope always to have the honour to be considered Sir 
Roger Templeton's friend," was the dignified reply of Grace ; 
who though her tones were cold and austere, nevertheless suf- 
fered her hand to remain clasped in that of the baronet, after 
one or two gentle endeavours to extricate it. " I will dis- 
close — I will disclose to you the secret of my heart," sighed 
Sir Roger. " I will lay all ray long cherished hopes before 
you. I will disclose to you the secret of my heart's affection 



Dear Miss Paget, do you think it possible that any woman 
could love ine ?" 

" Sir Roger !" exclaimrd the beauty. 

" Nay, dear Miss Paget, you have promised to hear me as 
a friend .'" 

" Well, then. Sir Roger," replied Graee, much excited and 
embarrassed, " I may say that I think you have as fair a 
cliancc as any other gentleman of my arqnaintance." 

" Is that your sino-re opinion, Miss Paget?" 

" It is my sincere opinion." 

"Thanks, many tlianks 1 You know not what a weight of 
doubt your words have removed from my heart." 

The baroact paused for a few seconds, and then looking ten- 
derly up into the face of Miss Paget, he said, " Miss Paget, I 
am in love 1" 

Grace Paget liiadc no reply ; she tried to speak, but could 

The baronet continued : " May I — may I, as a sincere and 
devoted friend, request an answer to one other question that I 
■would put to you, and upon which all my happiness depends. 
Do yon think — I beseech you to give me a candid answer — do 
you think that there is any one female member of your family 
wlio would reject me as a suitor for her hand ?" 

There was a pause. Grace Paget was all confiision. At 
length the baronet repeated the question, and then did Grace 
reply. " I think. Sir Roger, as you persist in your question — 
I think I may say there is not." 

Sir Roger started from his chair in delight. He shook the 
hand of Grace affectionately, and his eyes sparkling with the 
newly inspired felicity, he cried, " My dear Miss Paget, you 
have made me a happy man 1 You have encouraged me to 
hope thiit 1 shall reach the height of my heart's ambition ! 
You have given me life, and joy, and extasy. You have given 
me reason to hope that I shfill be the happiest man in the 
world, and now, emboldened by your words, I will instantly 
go and throw myself at your lovely cousin's feet !" 

" Sir Roger Tcmpleton !" shrieked Grace Paget. 

" O," cried the baronet, " I shall expire if my adored 
Ellen Grantley will not become my wife ! I go to lay my 
heart, my fortune, my life, at that angel's feet !" 

And away he went, leaving Grace Paget in a state of won- 
derment and total darkness I 

And sure enough Grace Paget had told the truth : there was 
no female member of her family tliat would have refused Sir 
Roger's hand ; and when he proposed to Ellen Grantley, there 
was not more hesitation on her part than decorum warranted ; 
and by the time Graee Paget had recovered from the state of 
consternation into which the frientUy disclosure of the baronet 
had thrown her, he, good happy man, had become the accepted 
suitor of the charming Ellen. 

.\nd Ellen is Ellen Grantley no longer : but the light of Sir 
Roger's home, the idol of his heart, and the pretty flirt Graee 
Paget, is, alas ! Grace Paget still ! 

Laura Percy. 

A Dropped Gcixea ! — A certain physician attending a lady 
several times had received a couple of guineas each visit ; at 
last, when lie was taking his departure for the last time, she 
gave him but one, at which he was surprised, and looking on 
the floor, as if in search of something, she asked him what the 
looked for? " I believe. Madam," said he, " I have dropped 
acuinea;" " No, Sir," replied the lady, " It is / that have 
•dropped it." 

a romantic tale. 

My first meeting with Emma was under singular circum- 
stances, and the whole course of our wooing, indeed, was 
attended by such romantic adventures as to prove the truth of 
the noble poet's saying, " fact is stranger than fiction." I 
was making the "grand tour," and having ])assed through 
Italy, and seen all that was worth seeing in court and city. ' 
determined upon iiaying a visit to the Swiss mountains, and 
sojourning for a short time with the himters and peasants, 
who I had heard so much of ; little expecting that my heart, 
which had escapeil the witty belles of France, and the luxuriant 
beauties of Italy, would fall a victim to the charms of a little 
dark -eyed Swiss. 

On my arrival in Switzerland I was delighted with the 
majestic scenery that met my eyes ; the mirror-like lakes, the 
stupendous mountains, the cataracts and water-falls, which 
have been so thoroughly described in the works of recent tra- 
vellers, as not to require further mention of here. I had been 

staying at L for three weeks, when one morning, while 

wandering over the monntsiins, I suddenly beheld pas>ing at 
the bottom of a slight i)rf cipice, a maiden who seemed rather 
to belong to " upper air" than to the world. Forgetful of my 
situation, I proceeded too hastily to look in the direction the 
young beauty had gone, when my foot slipped, and I fell to the 
bottom of the precipice. As I lay, panting for breath, upon the 
ground, and wisliing myself anywhere but where I actually was, 
two lads about fourteen years old, apparently brothers, ])assed 
me on tlicir way to the village, on mules. They generously 
contended which of them should have the pleasure to walk 
while I rode down on the mnle. The yotmgest being persuaded 
to keep his seat, I mounted with the aid of my little friend, and 
soon arrived with them at the door of a neighbouring chateau, a 
beautiful little edifice embosomed in a wood, a perfect paradise. 
The owner of the mansion, a fine-looking old gentleman, M. 

J , the father of my young friends, came out to meet us, 

and with a look full of genuine benevolence and hospitality, M. 
J welcomed me to his abode, and entreated I would con- 
sider it my home until I could obtain a vehicle to carry me to 
my inn. 

I was immediately introduced to his daughter, Emma, whom 
I discovered to be the fair cause of my accident. Imagine my 
raptures wlien I found that I was under the same roof with 
her who held my heart in charms. The vehicle at length 
arrived that was to carry mc away from the house of my beloved 

one, but the good -hearted M. J pressed me to visit him as 

often as it would be convenient, and I did not refuse the 

I paid frequent visits to the house of my Swiss friends, and 
at length I learnt that a young hunter, a distant and poor 

relation of M. J , had aspired to the hand of Emma. My 

jealous fears being thus excited I resolved to make a declaration 
of my attachment. 1 did propose ; and my proposal was 
received with a modest blush and such kindly-uttered words as 
assured n»c that my love was returned. 

Some time afterwards I learnt from Emma, that Henri, my 
h\ini1)le rival, had spoken of love to her: " but I told him," 
she observed, " that it was out of my power to satisfy his wish, 
for my heart had been given to another, and that where my 
heart was gone my hand must follow.'' I pressed the lovely girl 
more closely than ever to my bosom. 



On the afternoon of that clay we set out on a visit to a 
neighbouring lal<e, and on our return strolled a long distance 
out of the direct road ; we wandered without calculating on 
hours, minutes, or miles ; we were further from home a great 
<leal than we ought to have been, when the sky became sud- 
denly overcast, the rain fell in large drops, and with unpleasant 
anticipations we quickened our steps. The storm, however, 
threatened to be of s\ich a character that we thought it best 
for Emma to remain in a cottage hard by, while I ran to her 
father's for the carriage. I rashly took my path over the west 
side of the mountain, intending to pass the rapid by a foot- 
bridge, and so arrive at the place of my destination about half 
an hour sooner than I could otherwise do. I arrived at the 
place where the bridge stood, but discovered to my mortification 
that the frail and decayed structure had been nearly destroyed 
by the velocity of the current, which had been swelled in a very 
little time to twice its usual magnitude by the heavy rain. 
Determined rather to risk a cold bath than return to the starting 
place, wet through as I was, and proceed along the highway, 
I advanced cautiously along the bridge ; I passed in safety the 
most precarious part of it near the middle, when, as the shower 
partly abated, I observed Henri, the Swiss hunter, preparing to 
come across. He had watched our motions from our first 
acquaintance with an unfriendly and jealous eye, and now the 
laugh of triumph on his face at finding me alone and so far from 
human aid, was very easily distinguishable. He was a very 
strong athletic young fellow, of two or three and twenty ; we 
were both without weapons, and I began to feel rather awk- 
wardly circumstanced. He met me on the bridge ; to turn 
back would have been to place myself in a situation the safety 
of which was extremely questionable, and to pass each other 
was almost impossible. I therefore explained to him that I 

was in haste to get to M. J -'s, and begged he would return, 

as he could do so at his side of the river with perfect safety, and 
kindly allow me to proceed on my journey. With a satanic 
grin he obstinately refused, and, gnashing his teeth with rage, 
he rushed forward, seized me by the shoulders, and attempted 
to precipitate me into the foaming torrent. I muttered a short 
but sincere prayer to Him " in whose hands our breath is, and 
in whose are all our ways," grasping at the same instant the 
hand-rail of the bridge with the strength of despair, and des- 
perate indeed was the struggle for life or death that ensued. 
During the short time the contest lasted, the most prominent 
events of my life, concluding with the sincere attachment to my 
poor Emma, passed and repassed in incredibly short periods 
before my trembling view, each depicted with most startling 
fidelity. At length the dreadful struggle was terminated by the 
immersion of both of us into the rapid. In the fall he reluc- 
tantly loosed his hold of me, and with a shriek attempted to 
lay hold of some foundation piles of the bridge which had not 
been carried away. He failed, however, and after one or two 
impotent endeavours, floated despairingly down the stream. 
Meanwhile, being a tolerable swimmer, I used my utmost 
strength to gain the land, and happily succeeded, when just 
worn out, at a part of the bank whence I could climb to the 
road without much extra exertion. I turned round to see what 
was become of my rival, and with feelings that baffle descrip- 
tion, obsei-ved him quite exhausted near the place where the 
rapid descended a precipice of thirty or forty feet, and about to 
relinquish his hold of a small root which projected Into the 
stream. I remained gazing upon him in a state of unenviable 
suspense, and saw his nerveless fingers let go his only possible 
chance of escape. With face blackened, and the starting glazed 

eye of death, he rolled crver, and was carried sinking down the 

In about two hours — was it indeed only two — I thought it 
had been almost ten — I had sufficiently recovered my strength 
to reach the house of my intended father-in-law, who imme- 
diately proceeded to fetch the anxious Emma from her tem- 
porary abode on the slope of the mountain. Some months 
elapsed ere we both entirely recovered from the shock of that 
memorable day. The body of Henri was never heard of more, 
and the tale (except by som€ few) began at length to be 
gradually and willingly forgotten. 

I have now been married several years, and the felicity of 
each succeeding day reminds us how very nearly the cup was 
dashed untasted from our lips. J. B. B. 


How silently the moon's soft ray, 

Just waked from sleep. 
Steals, like a spirit, far away 

Along the deep. 

And see the bark, whose brighten'd sail 

Hangs carelessly, 
That kisses every gentle gale 

That fans the sea. 

There is a time of calm delight, 

'Tis at this hour 1 
For those who love the silent night, 

And feel its power 1 I^ 


" Ah, soon, very soon did I spring from the snare 
That mem'ry had spun from the pleasures of yore ; 
I came to my home, but a stranger was there. 
And the home of the loved one, it knew me no more. 
The one whom I loved when in life's early morn 
Had fled from this world to th' abode of the just, 
And I, even I, was so weary and lorn, 
I wished that with hers I could mingle my dust." 

When love lights up a home, that home is a Paradise, wherein 
hrimanity enjoys a foretaste of Heaven. What is love ? What 
is this light which makes such happiness — which elevates us so 
far above our fellow creatures — which so brightly irradiates our 
path — scattering roses before the footsteps of youth, smoothing 
the furrows and wrinkles of age, and giving peace and resigna- 
tion to the pillow of death ? We all of us perpetually desire 3 
something which is beyond our attainment ; we are constantly 
following shadows ; our wishes are no sooner gratified than new- 
wishes spring up ; we go on through our brief pilgrimage, our 
wants increasing every day, till the last hour comes, and then 
we cast a retrospective glance at our career, and are amazed at 
the folly of the game we have been pursuing. There is one 
bright spot in human existence, an oasis in the desert of life, 
■which could we but discover its brightness and its value while 
it is ours, we might throw care behind, and be happy. These 
are the hours of love — of love, true, pure and holy love, which 



€vcry liiimaii \tr\ivx fools in all its tnitli and pnrity, and holiness, 
oiire in tluir cxistfiire, whicli cvcrv one lia-; tlie power to |ifr- 
l>ctuatc, but wliich too many do not sec tlic value of till they 
.niT pone, and once pone tliey never roine baek apain. Wlicn 
love poes out, there is nothing on earth to revive it ; it dies, 
I'lasses away and tlie world knowetli it no more. 

Tlicrc was ii fairy once — a fairy Prince, Azael he was called 
iinionp his fellows, as blythe and pay as any fairy prince that 
ever lived ; he was handsome, and the fairy pirls all courted bis 
smiles ; he w^-is penerous, ami all the fairies of the other sex 
lo\ed him with a true fraternal affection. There no fairy 
in all the elfin thronp that would refuse to dance with Azael in 
the bripl\t mooulipht, when they came fcn-th to foot it on the 
Tiirht fantastic toe, when no busy eye of mortal looked upon 
tlieir revelry. For a time Azael was the most delighted of 
fairies ; but then he became sad, listless and desponding ; and 
they all said tliat he was in love. 

He used to fiequeut the most lonely places ; he would wan- 
der by himself throuph plades, unseen, and pause to meditate 
by murmtirinp brook orljvibblinp fountain ; lie no longer danced 
in the thronp, but would quit the midnight revels for a solitary 
r;unl)le in the starlipht. At length it came out that Prince 
Azael mis in love, stark, staring, downright love ! Love, the 
brightest and purest that was ever felt in fairy land was the 
heart of Azael filled with, but he cherished a passion which the 
fairy King, his sire, disfavoured. The fairy mnid was one of 
the Maids of Honour to the Queen. 

And never did there exist a sweeter nor more innocent crea- 
ture than Lilia, the Maid of Honour to the Queen. Everybody 
loved her ; it wcnild have been a shame if they had not ; they 
who were married and were discontented with their elftn wives 
could not, with all their philosophy, drive out of their hearts a 
wicked wish that somebody nameless would give them the op- 
portunity of weeping over that somebody's grave ; and they 
who were contented with the fair partners of their heart and 
fortune loved Lilia as a sister, for she was so beautiful, and 
better tlian tliat, she was so good. 

It is said, indeed, that Oberon, the King, once upon a time, 
after sipping May-dew with this fairy Hebe, forgot to give his 
Queen, Titiania, the good-night kiss. Hut Titiania was too 
wise a fairy to take any notice of the oversight, and instead of 
making the matter worse by reading him a curtain lecture, 
only clustered tlie rose-leaves closer round him while he slept, 
and kissed him into happy dreaming. 

There are some who may think Titiania's conduct on this 
occasion a very good lesson to mortal wives in a similar situa- 
tion. Reader, what is your opinion ? 

Well, whether King Oberon was desirous that pretty Lilia 
.should for ever remain Maid of Honour to the Queen, in order 
tliat nobody else should become master of the treasure fate had 
j)ut it out of his own power to possess, or whether he really 
and in liis conscience believed that it would be infra dig for a 
prince of the blood royal to marry a Maid of Honour we cannot 
tell, but certain it is that when the Prince declared his passion 
for the pretty Lilia, the little fairy King waxed wondrous big ; 
his diamond eyes shot lightnings, his words were loud and 
positive ; and he vowed to shut his darling from his he.irt, if 
he should dare to marry a Maid of Honour. A king's vow is a 
terrible thing, and very likely the Prince thought it so ; but, 
nevertheless, in six days afterwards, he was married to the 
beautiful Lilia. 

And true to his word, King Oberon put his son out of doors. 
And where was now Love's home ? Lilia wjis sux orphan, 

and friendless ; and the Prince was deserted by those wlinm his 
former bounty fed. Once crowds of sycophants had attended 
him wherever he went ; but now he au'l his fairy wife sat be- 
neath the shelter of a cluster of violets, and the tialtercrs knew 
them not. 

Hut they found a home, a double home, a home which, 
though the uninitiated world mipht suppose it to be two distinct 
and separate abodes, is neverthfkss, and notwithstanding ap- 
pearances, but one connected and insepr.nible abode to tliose 
who happen to be imdcr the same influeucc as Azael and his 
fairy bride. And O, how happy was that home ! How brightly 
was it irradiated. What costly furniture was it filled with ! 
What dazzling gems studded its walls I And what strains of 
music divine, and what sweet odours was it filled with ! Their 
home was each other's hearts. 

Is this a mystery to you, fair and gentle reader ? There are 
some perhaps who knov and /<'<;/ the truth of the matter. 

Hut what became of Lilia .' and how did Azael behave in this 
new and precious home, for which he had exchanged the gor- 
peous palace, and forfeited his father's love ? You shall see. 
For six months their home was all beautiful, and they were 
most happy. And Lilia felt that she could be always happy, 
coidd remain in the enjoyment of pcifect bliss, until the hour of 
annihilation, when her heart and all its affections should mingle 
with the silent dust. And she had taught her husband to think 
so too. But love cannot be taught ; what comes by lessons 
may be forgotten. Azael grew cold and reserved. The novelty 
of passion was over, and while he sat under the violets, looking 
sometimes into the starry eyes of his bride, he nevertheless saw 
a myriad of eyes floating past him, and he heard the merry 
songs of the elfin throng, and their footsteps on the dewy grass 
in their moonlight revelry. At first those two starry eyes and 
the honied lips o'er whose sweet surface they shed divine light, 
were all that the fairy bridegroom coveted ; but of these he 
prew tired ; and Lilia, whose love never tired, which, stjong as 
death, was still exerted to procure happiness for the one idol 
of her affections, was neglected ; and by and by she learnt that 
while she sat alone under the violets, studying new gratifica- 
tions for her Azael, he w<is footing it in the fairy palace of King 
Oberon, with all the beauties of tlve Court in their teens. 

She felt the perfidy of her own heart's idol, as woman's heart 
ever feels the perfidy of the one it loves. She wept when he 
was absent, but when he came home her face was still dressed 
in smiles ; and although, if he had taken the trouble to look 
into her countenance, he would have seen there the marks of 
care and sorrow, he did not believe that she was less lovely 
than on the first day she received his vows. 

Tluis things went on for six months more, and then, thinking 
himself very silly to waste any part of his time under a cluster 
of simple violets, with a solitary and e(jually simple fairy, when 
all the beauties of the Court felt flattered by, and proud of his 
attentions, he staid away from the violets altogether, and by 
and by forgot that there were such things in the world ! 

Twelve months after this, Prince Azael, to dissipate tlic 
ennui of a dull morning (for notwithstanding the Court gaieties, 
he had dull hours) wandered far from his accustomed walks, 
and came, unconsciously, upon the old cluster of violets, where 
he had lived and loved in other and happier days. The gentle 
and beautiful Lilia was suddenly remembered, and then he 
thought that he would look in once more upon his forsaken 
wife. He removed the overhanging flowers which formed the 
portal, and called upon Lilia by name, but there was no reply ; 
lie called again, and paused, but all was silcut ; he stood alone 



!n what had once been his home of happy love. He looked 
around him, there were traces of the once beloved, bnt she was 
absent. Upon the little ivory table was a scroll ; he took it 
up, and read as follows : — 

" Neglected and- perishing, Lilia's last prayer is for the hap- 
piness of Azael J" 

He turned from the scroll, and his eyes rested upon a little 
hillock which the hands of some kind fairy friends had raised, 
and on which the nanre of Lilia grew in the same flowers as 
formed the home of love. And Lilia was dead. And he who 
had brought desolation to this once bright, sweet spot, now 
stood, conscience-stricken, by the side of Lilia's grave. 

The light of his life had gone out. The recollection of his 
crime was a never-ending torment. He abandoned the Court, 
and never from that day left the dreary home whose happiness 
he had himself destroyed. Long years of suffering did he 
endure, and when his wretched eoui-se was run, he died upon 
his Lilia's grave. 

And fairy lovers often wander to the spot, and then the 
gi-aver fairies tell the story of these ill-starred lovers, and teach 
the younger to avoid the error of the wretched Azael, who 
broke the heart of her by whom he was adored, and turned the 
home of love into tlie abode of death. 

May not mortals, also, take a lesson from the story ? 



The Moss Rose.— Very little faith is to be placed in the 
assertions of persons ignorant of gardening and botany as to 
the date of the introduction of particular plants ; as a proof of 
which may be given the remarkable fact that Madame dc Genlis, 
when she was in England, saw the moss rose for the first time 
in her life ; and, when she returned, took a plant with her to 
Paris, in order to introduce it into France ; though the fact is, 
that it was originated in Provence. The musk rose, Hakluyt 
tells us, in 1592, was first obtained from Italy; and it also 
was common in the time of Gerard. The single yellow rose was 
known to Gerard, but not the double. It was brought to England 
from Syria before 1()29. 

An Amusing Fkllow.— The man who once mounts the 
colours of a humourist, and shows himself in the character of 
an amusing fellow, has entered upon an Herculean task indeed ! 
He has, as it were, sworn himself in — never to be dull — never 
to be ill— never to be diffident— never to be tired— never to 
have a cold— never to have a headache— never to forget an old 
song— never to be without a new one — never to have done 
making the children laugh — never to mind their going to bed 
on the occasion of his presence— and worse than all, never to 
show any mortification, perplexity, or temper, when in spite of 
himself, he has been urged to sing a sentimental ballad, and 
can't hear his own voice for the noise of four quarrelling whist 
players, a violent back gammonist, a ferocious poker, a restless 
footman with the rattling handle of a creaking door in his hand, 
an unsolicited and discordant accompaniment by a whistling 
sportsman, and the jingling of the crockery on the supper tray, 
which is just brought in as the song reaches the climax, and 
leaves the singer to lament that he was ever born an amusing 

A Negro's Definition of a Gentleman. — " Massa 
make de black man workee— make de horse workee— make de 
ox workee — make ebery ting workee, only de hog— he no 
workee ; he eat, he drink, he walk 'bout, he go to sfeep when 
he please, he lift" like a gentleman." 

Listen, and I will tell to thee, 

A dream of early and happy years : 

When joy and woe appeared to me ; 

A summer's morn of smiles and tears ; 

When resting on the couch of youth ; 

The mind's light slumbers grew disturbed, 

And visions lost the forms of truth. 

And fancy roved at will, uncurOed. 

Methought I lay on a strange wild shore. 

Beside the wide extended sea. 

Where nought but sunshine and the roar 

Of dashing waters seemed to be ; 

And as I gazed on that ocean vast, 

A spell seem'd o'er my spirit cast, 

Checking its high and boundless glee 

With feelings of intensity ! 

Wrapt in my thoughts, I look'd on high : — • 

A cloud was flitting o'er the sky. 

Gathering as it came away 

Towards the spot whereon I lay. 

Suddenly came upon my view 

A sight — which nought can now renew, 

For oil ! the world has damp'd the heat 

With which my youthful pulse did beat. 

And years of strife with worldly men 

Have stay'd that flood of thought, which then 

With feeling's own and gushing tide. 

Was wont to sweep o'er all beside ! 

But to my tale — there stood disphiy'd 

The fairy form of a beauteous maid. 

With glossy curls so purely bright. 

As if imbrued with Heavenly light ; 

Her deep dark eyes had a witching wile, 

Her lips tlie beam of an angel's smile, — 

Lowly I bent to worship there 

A shrine so lovely and so fair ! 

She bade me rise — in tones more sweet 

Than mortal ears are wont to meet : 

And on my brow she press'd a kiss, 

Whose thrilling pow'r and magic bliss. 

Wafted me upwards through the air 

On wings, as light, as pure, as fair. 

As those which bore that form of love 

From regions drear to those above ! 

Away ! away 1 we onward flew 

Beyond the sky's unclouded blue. 

And travell'd on from star to star 

Tiu-ough fields of ether, till afar 

From mortal worlds, we found the race 

Of spirits in their dwelling place : — 

On entering there, a shout arose. 

Of deafening mirth and joy from those, " 

Who, pressing forwards in a crov/d. 

Sang, in attuning voices loud, 

Praises to her as a mighty queen. 

Who down to earth's domain had been 

A fair hair'd maiden came and plac'd, 

Around the seraph's beauteous waist. 

As on in stately pomp she led. 

With jewell'd crown upon her head, 

Towards a gay and sumptuous throne. 



The stars own bright and glittering zone 
Wliilst music, with liarmouious tiouud, 
I'our'J forth in melody around. 
She waved lier liand, and every breath 
Srtnk in the solemn still of death ; 
Kach spirit humbly bending low, 
Hefore that dazzlinir scat did bow : 
Oh ! then rais'd her eyes to me, 
And spake in voice of purity ; 
'Tis here I reign in power supreme, 
Mistress of all this starry gleam. 
And by the brightness of the gem, 
Which gilds my princely diadem. 
Sends forth a holy beam and light, 
To other worlds in depth of night : — 
Yet all I have, this realm of mine. 
My slaves and power are also thine, 
If with a glorious brightness, thou 
Wilt place this crown upon thy brow. 
And ever with a Heavenly bride 
O'er worlds of radiant light preside ! 
Sadly e'n you would wake I deem, 
To find this rapture, but — a dream I 


Airs below Stairs (By a Foreigner). — It was at B 

(the seat of the Manjucss of L ) that we were first 

initiated into the insolence of the English race of men-servants. 
We had entered the portico, and my friend so far forgot him- 
self, or rather so far remembered his German good manners, as 
to take off his hat, and address himself in a friendly tone to the 
servant. ]5y this civility, he, however, forfeited all claim to 
respect in the fellow's eyes, who answered very saucily, and 
desired us to go nnmd to the back door. Fortunately, I was 
better versed in English usages ; and, coming up with a lofty 
air, and my hat on my head, said, in the appropriate drawl, 
^'Where's the housekeeper? I have a note from the mar- 
chioness." This altered his tone immediately, and we were 
properly admitted. As a further instance of the insufferable 
airs of this class in England, I a(hl another anecdote. A noble- 
man of the highest rank (an English duke), on visiting the col- 
lection of the Duke of S , put a crown into the servant's 

hand : " My lord," said the man, eyeing the piece with infinite 
contempt, " from such nobleman as yourself I am accustomed to 
receive gold." The duke pocketed the crown again, adding, 
•' Tell your master that you'll get neither gold nor silver from 


One Esculapius like a sculler plies, 
Exerts his skill, and all his art he tries ; 
But two Physicians, like a pair of oars, 
Will waft you faster to the Stygian shores ? 
Fine Eating. — At a corporation feast in Bristol, one of 
the guests expressed his surprise at seeing turtle served to an 
Alderman four times. " Oh, that is nothing," was the reply ; 
>* he does not like turtle — you should see him eat venison 1" 

Time. — Man wastes his mornings in anticipating his after- 
jtjoons, and he wastes his afternoons in regretting his mornings. 
Why is a house unfinished, like a house that is finished .' 
Because it is a building {a-building .') . 

Why is the bird of Jove, wheu sick, like coatraband goods ? 
IJcc.iusc it in illegal {ill eayle). 

" O, beware, my lord, of jealousy ; 
It is the green-eyed monster which doth make 
The meat it feeds on." 


" Wilt dine with me this afternoon ?" said the young Count 
San Martino to his friend, Julio Komanza, as they lounged in the 
Grand Square of Venice, sunning their faces in the beams of 
the great orb of day, and their hearts in the rays shot from the 
many beautiful eyes which passed them in the promenade. 

" No, not this evening," was the reply. 

" Why not," asked the Count. " We shall be alone, and I 
would converse with you upon a subject nearest my heart. Be- 
sides I have just received some of the finest wine in Venice. 
Come, you shall not deny me." 

" At any other time, my dear Count, I shall be most happy 
to pass the evening with you ; but this particular night, I have 
an engagement which — which ." 

" With a lady ?" hastily inquired the Count. 

" Exactly so," answered Julio. 

" And who is the bright-eyed creature that has captivated 
the stout heart of Julio Komanza ? I had thought him dead to 
all the fascinations of the sex." 

" Of all but one, and she " 

" O, she is all perfection, no doubt, a paragon, a pearl, 
diamond of all diamonds, a treasure-house of loveliness and 
virtue 1 On my word, when you enemies of love fall into love 
yourselves, you do plunge into it with marvellous enthusiasm. 
But who is she you love ?" 

" Alas ! I live without hope. She whom I love Is far above 
me in fortune and in rank, I am poor Julio Komanza, she a 
daughter of one of oui- magistrates — a rich Venetian noble." 

" But how stands the lady's heart affected. Does she approve 
your suit .'" 

" She does." 

" Then continue your attack, and prosper. The com- 
mandant of the fortress must yield since you have so powerful 
an ally within." 

" That is your advice ?" 

" It is — but what may be the lady's name .'" 

" Nay, excuse me there, my dear Count. If I win her, you 
shall know all ; till then, your servant." 

With these words, Julio kissed his hands to the Count, and 
left him. 

The Count San Martino was enamoured of Lorenzina, the 
only child of the wealthy Marquis di Vanetti, whose beauty was 
the theme of conversation among the youth of the Venetian 
aristocrats, from whom she had selected the Count as the one 
object whereon to repose her heart's affections. On the even- 
ing of the day in which the conversation above described took 
place, the Count took a solitary dinner, and a few turns round 
the square after his wine ; he then, by way of killing time, 
proceeded to the Palazzo de Vanetti. He was not expected. 
When he parted from Lorenzina on the previous day, he had 
said an engagement with a dear friend on that evening 
would prevent him from visiting her, and when he entered the 
grand saloon, Lorenzina appeared somewhat confused ; her 
checks were flushed, and her eyes glanced rapidly about the 
room. Martino observed her emotion, and quickly inquired the 

" You were not expected," replied Lorenzina, " and — and 
I was beguiling the hours with my muid, in my father's absence. 



Our embroidery may have caused a litter in the room, and — 

and " 

" Nay, no apologies, Lorenzina ; It glads me to see this rosy 
flush upon your cheek ; and, your bright eyes seem all the 
brighter for this embarrassment. I will come often unexpect- 
edly, if you will promise me on those occasions always to look 
thus lovely." 

A suppressed coughing was suddenly heard in a closet. 

" Aha I Your maid is a listener !" exclaimed the Count. 
" Let me reprimand her." And he moved towards the closet- 

'* Count !" exclaimed Lorenzina, '* you cannot enter there — 
you will not be so rude " 

The Count bowed, and retired towards a chair, into which he 
was about to throw himself, when he perceived upon it a feather, 
which appeared to have fallen from a man's hat. 

" What is this ?" he exclaimed, eyeing it with astonished 

" That — that?" replied Lorenzina, more confused than ever, 
" that is — is — indeed, I know not ; my father, or my man, may 
have brought it, and — an " 

" And also this .'" said the Count, taking up a glove from 
the floor, and holding it forth. " I certainly never saw the 
Marquis with so brave a glove upon his hand as this ; and, 
'sooth, 'tis marvellously small for his hand, Lorenzina !" he 
continued, eyeing her stedfastly, and compressing his brows as 
he spoke, '• tell me this instant what these appearances be- 

" Count San Martino I" exclaimed Lorenzina, with an ex- 
pression of wounded pride, " Methinks you assume too much." 

♦' I demand from your lips an immediate explanation. Nay, 
I will force it from you. You are deceiving me. Tell me the 
traitor's name who rivals me in your love." 

Lorenzina was silent, and prepared to leave the room. 

" Stay, Lorenzina," cried the Count, seizing her by the 
hand, " you go not hence until you have unveikd to me this 
mystery. Who is he to whom this glove belongs ?" 

" Release me !" exclaimed the offended beauty, darting fiery 
glances from her starry eyes upon her frantic lover, " Release 
me, or I will call for assistance." 

" Call, shriek, loudly as you may, you shall not stir till I 
have plucked the secret from your guilty heart." 

The Count caught a firmer hold of the wrist of Lorenzina, 
and was dragging her towards a chair, when a shriek from the 
beauty caused the closet-door to be instantly thrown open ; 
when forth came a tall figure, masked and concealed in a dark 
cioak. His sword was unsheathed, and rushing towards Loren- 
zina, he wrested her from the Count's grasp, and then stood 
upon his defence. 

The infuriated Count started back with astonishment, and 
for a moment there was a pause. The stranger spoke not, but 
stood prepared to receive the Count's sword. The struggle 
that ensued was but momentary, for the Count rushed upon the 
masked stripling, who coolly parried the thrust, and at the next 
encounter of their swords, the Count's was forced out of his 
hand, and the hot-brained lover stood transfixed with shame 
and disappointment. 

'• Who art thou ?" he at length exclaimed. But the stranger 
gallantly presented him with his sword again, and without 
uttering a word, motioned him towards the door. The Count, 
looking indignantly upon Lorenzina, took the hint, and de- 

The next morning the Count San Martino and his young 

friend sat together over their cafe au lait, in the chamber of the 
former, who had sent for Julio to recount the adventure of the 
previous night, and to seek his advice in the matter. 

" O, Julio !" he cried, " I could not have believed that one 
so angel-like would e'er have proved unfaithful." 

" And pray, my dear Count, what causes you to think her 
unfaithful now." 

" What !" cried the lover, " Have I not told you all that 
passed last night. Can there be a doubt upon the subject. 
Did not her paramour rush from his lurking place upon me ?" 

" But you tell me that you used violence towards the lady. 
The man you speak of might have been there upon a different 
errand, and only did what any other man would have done, when 
a woman's voice was heard supplicating assistance." 

" You talk very finely, Julio ; but imagine yourself in my 
place, imagine — but apropos, how goes on your affair ?" 

" Swimmingly. My charmer gives me fresh proofs of her 
attachment every day. I am now entrusted with the execution 
of a little commission by her. Last night she accidentally 
broke a costly necklace of pearls, which she wore, and bade me 
find a jeweller to repair the accident. Can you recommend me 
one !" 

" I can 1 it is not long since I purchased such an ornament 
for the traiteress, Lorenzina ; she who has destroyed my every 
hope of happiness !" 

" You are a judge, perhaps, of jewellery, and can estimate 
the value of this." 

With these words, Julio presented a morocco box to the 
Count, who surveyed the exterior with some surprise : but on 
opening it he gazed with astonishment at the pearls, and cried, 
*' Is this a delusion ! Can I believe the evidence of my eyes ?" 
" You seem amazed by the beauty of the pearls ?" 
" They belong to her you love ?" cried the Count. 
" I have said that the necklace was given to me last night 
by her whom I adore," was the reply. 

"Traitor!" rejoined the Count, "Base, ungenerous, un- 
feeling traitor. 'Tis you, then, who have come between me 
and my love. But I will be revenged !" 
" My dear Count !" exclaimed Julio. 

"Away, fiend, villian !" rejoined the Count, grasping his 
sword, " this necklace I gave to Lorenzina on her birth-day. I 
am deceived, cheated, betrayed 1 The friend for whom I would 
have died, the lady w'hom I adored, both false ! Villain, I will 
not endure these wrongs." 

" Will you hear me ?" inquired Julio. 

" It is too late to parley. Stand upon your defence !" And 
the Count's sword was again unsheathed. " But no !" he con- 
tinued, " I will not stain my hearth with the blood of so base 
a creature ; meet me within an hour in the field behind the 
Palazzo de Vanetti, that the eyes of the false fair one after 
our encounter, may behold the bloody consequences of her 

" Agreed 1" cried Julio, and they separated. 
■Within the hour the Count San Martino had settled all his 
worldly affairs. He then repaired to the appointed place of 
meeting. Julio was not there ; but the aged Marquis de 
Vannetti, the father of Lorenzina appeared to be awaiting his 

" Well, Count," quoth the Marquis, " 'tis a melancholy- 
, business we have both come here upon. A very melancholy 

The Count gazed at the speaker in astonishment. 

" We shall have horrid work anon," continued the old Mar-» 



quia. " Tnip, I have lost a little strenpth, the Are of youth 
bus pone out, liut I dure to say 1 can make a hit yet," and he 
drew his sword a^ he spoke. 

" I have not come to fight with the Marquis de Vanetti," 
said the Count. 

" But the Marquis de Vanetti is come to pive satisfaction to 
the Count San Martino, having placed Sijruor Roman;:a safe 
w«der lock and key. So come, let us fipht." 

" This is a matter past jesting," said the Count. " I am 
not in a mood for sport. Where is the false friend who has 
robbed nu- of my love ?" 

" Fast bound in that jealous pate of thine," quoth the Mar- 
quis. " Man man, what a fool do thy passicms make of thee '." 

" Where is Julio llomanza .'" cried the Count, not heeding 
the words of the Marquis. 

" Engaged in pleasing converse, no doubt, with the lady of 
his heart's love," said the Marquis. 

" You encourage and sanction this treachci7 ?" cried Martini. 

" No, man ; 'tis you yourself encourages it; and see here 
fomes one who will break the delusion, and convince you what 
an arrant blockhead you have been." 

At this moment the fair niece of the Marquis, Camilla 
Rosetti, came running towards them, and addressing the Mar- 
quis, exclaimed, " We have conquered ; my cousin consents to 
pardon her lover, and forget all that passed last night !" 

" There," said the Marquis, "do you hear that, Count? 
And now if you don't fall down upon your knees, and thank the 
fair .suppliant in your behalf, you are a greater blockhead than I 
took you for." 

" I cannot understand your meaning," said the Count. 

" Come with me and Camilla into the house, and you shall 
there be enlightened," said the Marquis, and taking his ncice 
by the hand, he led the way. 

San Martino followed, and on entering the reception room, 
he beheld Julio, who approaching him with a smile, said, 
" Allow me to introduce to you the lovely Camilla Rosetti, 
whom 1 have long loved, who arrived upon a visit here yesterday, 
and a stolen interview between myself, and whom you, last night, 
broke in upon. Your jealous fears wounded the heart of one, 
by whom you are sincerely beloved, and she resolved to cast you 
off for ever. I then interceded in the hope of amending this one 
uuamiable trait in your character ; borrowed the necklace to 
oonfinn your suspicions, and to show how liable we are to mis- 
take, and how cautious we should be in doubting those we love. 
1 now trust that I have eradicated all that is unworthy of )ou 
from your heart. Say, are you not ashamed of your conduct 
since yesterday, for repentance is the condition upon which the 
Marquis has promised me the hand of his charming niece." 

The Count approached his friend, and warmly embracing him, 
exclaimed, " Humanity is liable to error; an honourable man 
hesitates not to ask forgiveness when made sensible of his fault. 
1 see. 1 confess mi/ error. How can I make atonement ?" 

'• liy avoiding the same error for the future," said tiie Mar- 
quis, " and now you may come forth, for I see the day will cud in 
a feast instead of a fight !'' 

Lorcnzina entered, and in a moment, she was locked in her 
lover's arms. A double wedding speedily ensued. 

Blind Kauristkr. — A barrister, blind of one eye, pleading 
with his spectacles on, said, " Gentleman, in my argument, / 
shall use nothing, but wliat is necessary. " Then," replied t,lie 
wag, " take out one of the glasses of your spectacles." 


There arc some shrewd contents in those same papers. 


AxGKR. — Anger is like rain ; it breaks itself upon that 
which it falls on. 

liKAUTiKUL. — What every young lady thinks herself, and 
every young gentleman feels it his boundeu duty tp declare every 
young lady to be. 

Hashfui.xkss. — The glow of the angel in woman. 

H/.iNDNicss. — A prison, from whose blank walls there is no 

Books. — Silent companions, who often speak most elo- 

CcxiuiCTTK. — A lady who only discovers her own mind when 
it's of no use to her. A flower which uncloi-es itself only when 
all the rest are fallen asleep. 

CiG.\R Smokkrs. — Automatons with the smoky nuisances 
of steam engines, but without the power. 

Confidence is not always the growth of time. There are 
minds that meet each other with a species of affinity that 
resembles the cohesive jiropertics of matter, and with a promp- 
titude and faith that only belongs to the purer essence of which 
they are composed. 

Conversation is the daughter of reasouiug, the mother of 
knowledge, the breath of the soul, the commerce of hearts, the 
bond of friendship, the nourishment of eonteut, and the oceu- 
pation of men of wit. 

Moderation. — The silken string running through the pearl 
chain of all virtues. 

Money. — Wisdom, knowledge, and power, all combined. 

Music. — An art which strengthens the bonds of civilized 
society, humanizes and softens the feelings and dispositions of 
mankind, produces a refined pleasure in the luiud, and tends to 
raise up in the soul emotions of an exalted nature. Sensibility 
is the soul of music, and pathos its mjst powerful attribute. 
Pi-ince Puckler Muskau says that there is no nation in Europe 
which pays music better than England, or understands it worse. 
But Puckler Muskau is a libeller. 

PoETRV. — The apotheosis of sentiment. The art of painting 
by words everything that attracts and strikes our eyes. The 
natural language of the religion of the heart, whose universal 
worship extends to every object that is beautiful in nature, and 
bright beyond it ; but inordinate devotion borders on idolatry, 
and its exaltation is followed by prostration of strength and 
spiri . 

Serious Intrusion. — In courtship ya/-(70/i des meres. 

Ring.— A circular link, put upon the noses of swine and the 
finger of woman, to hold both in subjection. 

Weaker Vessel. — " David, you know that the wife is the 
weaker vessel, and ye should have pity on her," said a clcrgj'man 
to a tlsherman, who was beating his wife. " Confound her,'' 
replied the morose fisherman, " if she is the weaker vessel, she 
should eairy less sail." 

Wisdom or Wives. — If thy wife be wise, make her thy 
secretary ; else lock thy thoughts in thy heart, for women are 
seldom silent. — An old u:rilei: 

Witches. — The oriyinul broom girls. 

Woman. — An ingenious commentator has observed that 
the woman was made out of the rib, taken from the side of a 
man ; not out of his head to rule him, but out of his side to 
be his e(|ual, {uuler his arm to be protected, and r.ciu' his he;ut 
to be beloved. 



Mnn is beside himself, not less than fallen 
rU'low his dignity, who owns not woman, 
As nearest to his heart than when she grew, 
A rib within him as his heart's own heart. 

AVorils are things, and a small drop of ink 
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces- 
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think. 
Woman's Voice. — How consoling to the mind oppressed 
by sorrow is the voice of woman ! Like sacred music, it im- 
parts to the soul a feeling of celestial serenity, and as a gentle 
zephyr, refreshes the wearied senses with its tones. Riches may 
avail much in the hour of affliction ; the friendship of man may 
alleviate for a time the bitterness of woe, but the angel voice of 
woman is capable of produeiug a lasting effect on the heart, 
and communicates a sensation of delicious composure which the 
mind had never before experienced, even in the moments of its 
highest enjoyment. 

Satisfactory. — "A very small bill, sir, just 

" My dear sir, entirely out of my power ! do me the favour to 
call to-morrow, and I'll tell you when to call again." 

An Apt Quotation. — A " poor player" undertook to quote 
a passage from Shakspeare that should be applicable to any 
remark that might be made by any person present. A forward 
yomig fellow undertook to supply a sentence that he believed 
could not be answered from the works of the bard ; and, 
addressing the player, he said, " You are the most insolent 
pretender in the room." " You forget yourself," promptly re- 
plied the player, quoting from the quarrel scene between Brutus 
and Cassias 

RovAL Wit. — Among the addresses presented upon the 
accession of James the First, was one from Shrewsbury, wish- 
ing his Majesty might reign as long as the sun, moon, and 
stars endured. His Majesty received the address with a smile, 
and observed — " I presume it is the intention of the good people 
of Shrewsbury that my son should reign by candle-light." 

What note in music does an idiot most resemble. A natural. 

Why does a large body of people resemble the service of a 
Romish Church ? Because it is a mass. 

Why is a man with a bald head like a pei'son almost suffo- 
cated ? Because he is in want of hair ! 

on an irascible miser. 
Drastus a handsome present made ! 

Did you believe it ? — Fie ! 
He never gave me aught, but once, 
And then it was — the lie. 

Caution to Gentlemen. — Avoid argument with the ladies. 
In debating upon silks and satins a gentleman is sure to be 

Love-Letters. — Marshal de Bossompiere, in his Memoirs, 
says that he was informed by the Duke of Epernon of Cardinal 
de Richelieu's design to have him arrested. " On February 24, 
1631," continued he, "I rose before day, and burned more 
than six thousand lova-lettPis wliicli I had formerly received 
from different women, apprehending lest, if I were committed to 
prison, and my house searched, sometiiing might be found to 
the prejudice of some person ; these being the only papers that 
could be injurious to any one." 

A Cube for Love. — ■'' What is a cure for love .'" asked 

Lord C of a witty belle at Almack's, one night. " Your- 

gelf, my Lord," was the reply. 

French Women. — Every Frenchwoman-, snys Lady Bles- 
sington, is mannierpe, even while a child in the nursery ; and 
when arrived nJ; maturity it has become so natural to her that 
it cannot be left off. All who possess not this distinction are 
considered gauche and mal e.lere ; it was therefore no wonder 
that Cecile in the circle of the Duchesse de Montcalm was 
treated as a young person totally unformed. We once heard a 
French Lady give the preference to an artificial rose made by 
Natier to a natural one of great beauty plucked in a parterre. 
She asserted that there was no comparison ; the rose of Natier 
was much more elegant, the petals more delicate, and la couleitr 
plus fendre ; " en/in," as she added, " it is more like iny beau 
H?fffi/ of a rose than the one from the garden." This French 
Lady's estimation of the artificial rose may serve as an example 
of the opinion of all her sex in France as to natural and 
ac((uii-ed gi-ace, beauty, and manner ; and the well-bred English- 
woman who will not try to /aire V esprit et briller dans les salons, 
w-ill be sure to be counted as stupid, awkward, and enuyicuse. 
life's blessing. 
Love \ thou art most beautiful ! — thy light 

Is heaven's best blessing on this world below, — 
Its moral sun by day, — its moon by night, — 

Its joys enhancement, and the balm of woe 1 
There's not a soul,- — a thing in depth or height, — 

But takes a hue and vigour from thy glow. 
Thou beautifiest hearts with bliss, the field 
With flowers ! — And constant joy dost yield. 
A Good Man.- — " I am accounted by some a good man," 
says Charles Lamb. " How cheap that character is acquired T 
Pay your debts, don't borrow money, nor twist your kitten's 
neck off, nor disturb a congregation, &c., your business is 

Resolves and Regrets. — All we can say of the best 
young men is, that they make good resolutions which they 
never keep, and are full of faults which they are ever regretting. 
the nightingale. 
Sweet Nightingale ! — I'll sing to thee ; 
Nor grove nor brake hath melody 
Sweeter than thine ; for on the spray 
Of unseen tree, when the moon's ray 
Sheds a soft light o'er hill and dell, 
Thy sister sings, and with her dulcet swell 
Fills all the air : — then let us flee 
To our own favour'd spot with thee ; 
Our cup of bliss will never fail 
While filled by thee, sweet Nightingale 1 H. 

Young Gentlemen Beware 1 — A man may see clearly 
through a woman's coquetry and yet fall a victim to it ; like 
the nightingale which sits on a tree, and sees the net spread 
beneath, and yet hops straight into it. 

Young Ladies Bevi^are ! — A gentle heart is like ripe 
fr\nt, which bends so low, that it is at the mercy of every one 
who chooses to pluck it, while the harder fruit keeps out of 

Love.— Love is heat full of coldness, a sweet full of bitter- 
ness, a pain full of pleasantness — making the thoughts, hair, 
eyes and hearts, ears — born of desire, nursed by delight, weaned 
by jealousy, killed by ingratitude. A man has choice to begin 
love, but not to end it. Love-knots are tied with eyes, and 
cannot be untied with hands — made fast with thoughts, not to 
be unloosed with fingers. 




Wlicrc nrc the roses of deimrtcd Sprinp, 
The flowers, the riches of the Summer 
day ; 
The butterfly with bright aud shining wing, 
Those beauties of the past — oh, wliere 
are they ? 
Where are the fruits the glorious Autumn 
The clustering splendor, gracing branch 
and bough ; 
The sunny smiles upon each dancing wave, 
Those glories I have known — where are 
they now ? 
Where is the music of the sylvan grove ; 
The feather' d warbler, morning's herald, 
Where is he flown ? I miss the strains I 
love ; 
The grove remains, but no sweet song 
is there. 
Where are those happy faces with me then, 
Those radiant smiles, the sunlight of the 
Those sounds of bliss, the echoed laugh of 
The mirth of women — whither did they 
All that the past, of beauty, had for me. 

Of mirth or loveliness, or joy is fled ; 
Whither, oh whither ? that I there may 
flee ; 
Tell me ye wandering sounds — they are 
not dead ? 
They live ; bleak Winter cannot kill them 
New life shall waken with a new born 
New bcjiuty at the Spring's delightful call, 
New splendor rise to ruu its short career. 
And merry forms shall glad the heart again, 
Friends shall return ; oh, be their ab- 
sence brief ; 
Hope reign till then ; with hope I ease my 
pain ; 
Hope, my one solace, and my sure relief. 

My country 1 I am dead to thee ! 

Then life has now no joy to give : 
Death is inditfercnt to me ; 

An exile cannot wish to live. — E. E. M. 


1 sojourn in a stranger land, 

Banish'd from all I love on earth ; 

And my thoughts wander from this strand 
To the dear isle that gave me birth. 

With the morn's earliest light I seek 
The shore, in hopes a sail to spy ; 

And, seated on some clifl"'s high peak. 
Fix on the sea my searching eye. 

A ship at last ! she nears, slie nears, 
A IJritish flag waves to the wind ; 

She passes ; oh ! she disappears, 
And leaves a British heart behind ! 

MY heart's idol. 
How fair is the earth \ how lovely the 9ky I 

Hut lovelier still. 
The smile of thy check, the glance of thine 
My charming Zitell. 

Terpsichore herself, with her " twinkling 
And fairy-like mien, 
Thouexcell'st ; for the sound of the Ijtc 
is less sweet. 
Than thy step o'er the green. 

Thy smiles, like Aurora's roseate skies. 

Look joyous and sweet ; 
Thy lip is the horizon, thy face is ths skies, 

Where these gentle lights meet. 
When thy eharms I contemplate with 
thrilling deiight, 

Thy features display ; 
A glad concentration of all that is bright. 

Enchanting and gay. 

How " silvery sweet" is thy voice, love, it 
Like the tones of a flute 
Through my soul ; or the murmuring of 
distant rills. 
Or the chords of a lute. 

My idol's the soul of perfection : her mind. 

Like an autumnal eve. 
Is transcendently fair. In her are combined 

All of bliss we conceive. 

Not all the nectareous sweets that bees sip 

Can please half so well 
As the exquisite softness of thy coral lip. 

My lovely ZitcU. M. D. 

teauty's kyes. 
Those eyes, dear eyes, be spheres 
Where two bright sun's arc roU'd, 
That fair hand to behold. 
Of whitest snow appears : 
Then while ye coyl y stand 
To hide from me those eyes, 
Sweet, I would you advise 
To choose some other fan than that white 

hand : 
For if yc do, for truth most true this know, 
Those suns ere long must needs consume 

warm snow. 


Go ! go, why linger here so long. 

For ever thus distressing ; 
You look so wild, you sigh so deep. 

My hand so often pressing. 

You fain muiit seek some other one 
To trifle with ; I tell to you : 

You make me laugh ; go, beardless boy, 
Less arduous " sport" pursue. 

You sometimes look : I know not how ; 

You call my eyes soft blue ; 
You say I cast a spell around, 

A heart, as fond as true. 

But that how can I e'er believe ; 

Go ; go, you are so teasing : 
For you, and such as you, how can 

I ever think you pleasing. * * * * 


There is no music in our hall ; 

No light around our hearth ; 
With morning's rise, with ev'ning'sfall, 

There comes no voice of mirth : 
The wild wind with a dreary moan 

Sweeps our forsaken bow'r ; 
Here sadness breathes in ev'ry tone, 

And tinges ev'ry flower. 
Each star unto the Ladye Moon. 

Amid their nightly glee, 
Singcth its gla<l and sparkling tune ; 

Our Star — ah 1 where is she ' 
She shines amid the happy rest 

Of thrice ten thousand sires ; 
Her song is with the pure, the blest ; 

The sweetest of their quires I 

E.G. K. 


Parents and all relations dead, 

From place to plare I roam. 
No mother's love now soothes my cares, 

No father finds a home. 
Pity misfortune, stranger, pray. 

And hear an orphan's cry. 
Let no one lend a listless ear, 

Nor tender aid deny. 
But still some comfort I enjoy 

From tenderness benign. 
When I relate my woes, I see 

The tear of pity shine. 
Oft I rcseek my parent's grave, 

And let the big tear flow ; 
Green grows the grass around the tomb, 

Where those dear friends lie low. 
Now time, advancing in its course. 

And passing by unseen. 
Hath brought me from my youthful days, 

To this life's busy scene. 
Yet 'mid the joys of busy life, 

'Mongst this world's troubling cares, 
Shall I forget that God above, 

W'ho hears the orphan's prayer ? 


bell, printer (removed to) 

299, strand, LONDON. 








&c. &c. &c. 


LONDON, MARCH 1, 1838. 

Vol. XV 








Our first plate for the present month represents the focus of 
attraction for all the gay loungers of the lively town of Baden- 
Baden. We know nothing more beautiful or enchanting than 
the situation of these Assembly rooms ; let our readers fancy to 
themselves a garden laid out in the most perfect taste, lawns, 
parterres, and gravel walks kept in the best order, and plants of 
the most choice description to attract the attention of the 
botanist ; the sheltered situation of the garden rendering it 
favourable to many plants rarely seen except in hothouses. 
Again, on our entrance, to attract the attention of those 
amongst the idlers who must be ever finding means of spend- 
ing their money, is a miniature fair, or rather, we should say, 
fancy fair. The tents being erected during the season, and re- 
maining some considerable time with every species of fancy 
German trifles for absent friends, and even millinery of good 
taste, but not perhaps such as might suit the more distinguished 
visitors. The walks are lighted with transparent lamps " a la 
Chinoise," which have a most charming effect shedding their 
subdued light upon the gardens and rendering them much like 
what we are accustomed to picture to ourselves as a fairy scene, 
whilst the sylph-likes figures of the elegant English and Ger- 
man women, who are promenading in various directions, tend to 
make the effect in perfect keeping. 

The Assembly rooms contain within their walls all that is 
necessary to gratify and amuse ; the billiard balls are almost 
nightly held here in one part of the building, whilst in another 
R«uge et Noir and Roulette have their attendant votaries, whose 
eager and anxious looks betray how much they have at stake in 
the turning of a single card, and the deep and bitter impreca- 
tions as the dealer exclaims, " Rouge gagne, couleur perd," in- 
duces us to turn from this part with disgust. In another part 
we have operas performed by a company more anxious to please 
than competent perhaps to give full effect to the productions of 
Mozart, Weber, Sphor, &c., but still the instrumental por- 
tions of the music are creditably performed. The chorusses 
are given with much precision, and the theatre is generally well 
Vol. XV. 

To those fond of good living there is an excellent ' restaurant, 
where the confiamed ban vivant may find all he can desire from 
the most excellent Anguilles h la tartar, which we most strongly 
recommend to the more simple bouilli, cooked to the perfection 
of tenderness, and which in the French cuisine forms so excel- 
lent a plat de resistance, or if determined on the German cuisine 
there is the saur kraut in high perfection with Imperial fokay 
Johannisberg, kalkbrunner, hock heimer. Moselle and the rich 
luscious German grape. Baden-Baden during the ensuing sea- 
son will be the great resort of all those driven from Paris by the 
closing of the Parisian gaming-houses, as operations are to be 
carried on on a much more extended scale, and our fair 
readers may have an opportunity of seeing the fatal results of 
this infatuated passion ; but we sincerely hope they will not be 
induced to forget what is due to their amour proprie by thought- 
lessly being induced to stake the smallest trifle. 



Lord Chamberlain's-office, FfeB. 17, 1838. 
Her Majesty will hold a levee at St. James's Palace, on 
Wednesday the 21st of March next, at twa o'clock. 

Lord Chamberlain's-office, Feb. 17, 1838. 
Her Majesty will hold a drawing-room at St. James's 
Palace, on Thursday the 5th of April next, at two o'clock. 

The fashionable season is now about to commence, and the 
young Queen, who holds the most high place in the affections 
of her people, has taken up her residence in her London Palace, 
and herself opened the gaieties by holding a Court and Levee, 
where the elite of rank and fashion assembled round Her 
Majesty, eager to offer homage at the foot of her throne. 
The Levee was uncommonly full, and it must have considerably 



fatigued Her Majesty to receive the many noblemen and 
gentlemen who attended, but still there was not the least 
appearance of fatigue upon her royal countenance, or in her 
manner, and the day passed olf with spirit and brilliancy. The 
QuEKN seemed, if possible, to have acquired even additional 
dignity and grace, and when seated upon the throne realized a 
most poetical idea of majesty. She wore a rich lama dress, 
her head glittering with diamonds, and her breast covered with 
the Star and Ribbon of the Garter, and other Orders. A pair 
of embroidered velvet slippers were the chauasure of her exqtii- 
sitely small feet, which, resting on a cushion, were the evident 
theme of admiration, and, we regret to hear, are so tender (in 
consequence of an accident in alighting from her carriage) that 
Her Majesty was obliged to appear with both slippers 
down at the heels. 

Our young and estimable Sovereign is not less remarkable 
for the condescension and diligence of her private habits, than 
for her public virtues. It is known that her illustrious parent, 
the Duchess of Kent, is an early riser, and that the Queen, 
before her accession to the throne, acquired the same early 
habits ; this is still one of the peculiarities of Her Majesty's 
character. Her general hour of rising is eight, a quarter 
before ten being the fixed time for breakfast ; the interval is 
chiefly devoted to the signing of despatches, for Her Majesty 
is occupied but a short time in dressing ; indeed, all her 
arrangements are characterized by that industry and activity, 
that repugnance to idleness, which forms so prominent a feature 
in Her Majesty's character. At a quarter to ten, as we have 
already intimated, Her Majesty proceeds to the breakfast 
room, and immediately desires one of the attendants to inform 
the Duchess of Kent that Her Majesty would be gratified by 
her company at the breakfast table. It may be necessary here 
to observe that since Her Majesty's accession to the throne, 
such etiquette has bee:i observed between those two illustrious 
individuals — the Duchess of Kent never approaching Her 
Majesty unless specially summoned. This observance reflects 
the highest credit upon the character and disposition of her 
Royal Highness, whose motive will be appreciated by the British 
public. Her Royal Highness, conscious that her duties ter- 
minated when her illustrious daughter became Queen, will not 
suflTcr it to be inferred from any of her actions that she is 
desirous of biassing or influencing the judgment of the So- 
vereign, in any of the great matters of state. The Queen and 
her Royal Mother never engage in any conversation that relates 
to state aflFairs. The Duchess of Kent, who is a great reader, 
generally converses upon the subject which last engaged her 
attention: and Her Majesty, who certainly possesses her 
share of that inquisitiveness not peculiar to herfami'y, has been 
known to protract the meal till more than one summons from 
her Minister had been gently whispered in her ear. The time 
appointed for conference with the Cabinet Ministers ii twelve 
o'clock. Her Majesty's demeanou.- is gracious and con- 
descending. A few complements arc the only piefaee to the 
business of the day. And here the intellectual greatness of 
Her Majesty is manifested. A certain document, we will 
suppose, is handed t) Her Majesty, and before a word is 
suffered to pass the Ministerial lip, the Queen has deliberately 
possessed herself of its contents. It is curious on these occasions 
to watch the countenances of the responsible advisers of the 
Crown — their indications, of course, varying with the impor- 
tance of the subject matter under contemplation ; but, the 
perusal having been acccmplished, a /ooX- from Her Majesty 
is suflTicient to unlock the door of utterance. It is not often, 

perhaps, that the Royal mind i« obtuse to the Ministerial pro- 
ject, but, when such happens to be the case, the unfortunate 
wight who has the conduct of the matter would much rather 
have been called upon to brave a storm from the Opposition 
benchcB, than the sil nt, though expressive, mistrust of Her 
Majesty's placid eye. 

After Her Majesty has retired from the Council Room, 
the interval between that and dinner time is pa«sed in riding 
or walking. Her Majesty, however, has but little leisure. 
We will now ])roceed to the dining room, and describe the dis- 
position of tlie guests at the Royal table. The First Lord in 
Waiting takes the head of the table ; opposite to him is the 
Chief Equerry in Waiting. Her .Majesty's chair is place<l 
half way down on the right, and the seats of her guests are 
severally arranged according to their ranks. Next to Her 
Majesty, on the left hand, is seated the nobleman of highest 
degree, next to him the Duchess of Kent, and w) on ; on Her 
Majesty's left the same etiquette is observal)le, the Baroness 
de Lehzen being usually complimented with a chair near the 
Queen. The dinner over we pass on to the drawing-room ; for 
who would remain with the gentlemen over their wine when the 
sweet sound of voices, more melodious than the instruments 
that dare their imitation, invites our ear ? The drawing-room 
of the Court is the only repose of the Sovereign next to the 
sanctity of devotion, and midnight solitude — and O ! how 
delightful is the scene ! Here — the business of life completed, 
so far, at least, as the transitory day is concerned, behold a 
virgin Q\)een, on whose brow the eyes of the brightest and 
fairest delight to gaze ! mark the tear-drop, as it struggles 
with emotions which may be felt, but cannot be described I 
" And is this the mighty sovereign of England and the myriads 
of her territories ?" 

Preceeding sovereicrns have been used to employ a private 
secretary, but there is no such office in her present Majesty's - 
household ; the Baroness Lehzen, a lady of fine intellectual 
qualifications assisting Her Majesty in this eaj a ity. The 
Baroness is an old and attached friend of the Duchess of Kent : 
and accompanied her to London on her marriage with the late 
Duke. The Baroness has passed the grand climacteric ; but 
the plain good sense, the entire absence of all ostentation, the 
quietness of her manner, together with the station she has so 
long maintained, have acquired for her the reputation of pos- 
sessing great weight and influence with the Crown. 

Her Majesty is very punctual in the observance of her 
religious duties ; and she does not fail to mark her sense of any 
neglect on the part of others. An interesting anecdote may be 
mentioned in illnstration of this. A noble lord, not particularly 
remarkable for his observance of holy ordinances, arrived at 
Windsor recently, late one Saturday night. " 1 have brought 
down for your Majesty's inspection," he said, " some papers 
of importance, but, as they must be gone into at length, 1 will 
not ti-ouble your Majesty with tliem to-night, but request 
your attention to them to-morrow morning." " To-morrow 
morning !" repeated the Queen, " to-morrow is Sunday, my 
Lord!" — "But business of State, please your Majesty!" 
— " Must be attended to, I know," replied the Queen ; "and 
as of course you could not come down earlier to-night, I will, 
if those papers are of such vital importance, attend to them' 
after we come from Church to morrow morning." To Church 
went the Royal party ; to Church went the Noble Lord, and, 
much to his surprise, the sermon was on " the duties of the 
Sabbath .'" — " How did your Lordship like the sermon P'-* 
inquired the young Queen. — " Very much, your Majesty," 



rtplied the Nobleman, with the best grace he conkl. — " I will 
not conceal from you," said the Q.ucen, " that last night I 
sent the clergyman the text from which he preached. I hope 
we shall all be the better for it." The day passed without a 
single word " on the subject of the papers of importance," and 
at night, when Her Majesty was about to withdraw, " To- 
morrow morning, my Lord,'' she said, " at any hour you 
please, as early as seven, if you like, we will go into these 
papers." His Lordship could not think of intruding at so 
early an hour on Her Majesty — " nine would be quite tinre 
enough." — " As they are of importance," said the Queen, 
" as they are of importance, my Lord, I would have attended 
to them earlier, but at nine be it." And at nine Her, 
Majesty was seated, ready to receive the Nobleman, who had 
been taught a lesson on the duties of the Sabbath, it is to be 
hoped, he will not quickly forget. 

The Duke of Cambridge has been entertaining some select 
parties at Cambridge House. 

The Queen Dowager is recovering her health at St. Leonard's. 


The Countess of Blessingtoa has just published a companion 
work to her Confessions of an Elderly Gentleman, which she 
gave last year to the reading public, and which obtained consi- 
derable popularity. Her ladyship is better informed of the 
secrets of woman's affections than of the affections of the 
sterner sex, which she very faintly and f ebly shadowed forth. 
Id point of fact, her ladyship's elderly gentleman has always 
appeared to us nothing more than a twaddling old lady in a 
toque and tortoiseshells ; the tabby's mew is audibly heard in 
many of her pages, and our ear catches a mysterious sound re- 
sembling the closing of the tabatiere after the fragrant pinch 
for the refreshment of the olfactories, and the brain to which 
they lead. We have a decided love for old ladies — we have 
long regarded them as the most charming of companions {with 
one or two exceptions); we love to see a good-hearted, generous, 
kind and affable lady of sixty, who, concious that she cannot 
have many more years to be merry and wise in, is determined 
to make the most of them, and to enjoy a large share of human 
happiness by striving to inspire happiness in those around them. 
Bless their kind hearts ! We love such old ladies, and we care 
not whether they be maids, wives, or widows ; but there is one 
thing we detest — a woman assuming the airs of manhood, and 
striving to appear what she is not, never will be, and what is 
more, never will be considered by those whose opinion is worth 
a jot. The Countess of Blessington's " Elderly Gentleman" 
was a woman, a real undeniable woman ; contradict it who can ; 
the confessions were thoroughly feminine — old-womanishly 
feminine ; we did not like them at all ; they were covin ter- 
feits — spurious coin, base metal, "brumagems" ; we detected 
them at a glance. But we have metal more attractive here ; the 
Elderly Lady is no impostor, she speaks of pure womanly feel- 
ings ; her actions, manners, thoughts, are delicately feminine, 
and the lesson which she teaches is impressive and good. 
The heroine, Lady Arabella Walsinghara, is nobly born, rich 
and beautiful, giving, while a child, proofs of such a spirit in 
her obstinate choice of, and immoderate passion for, her gover- 
ness (who becomes her step-mother) as that governess would 
have done well to moderate rather than indulge. The youth 
and position of the governess subject her to the slanderous 
tongues of the young beauty's relations. When she becomes a 

widow, she is again placed in a state of embarrassment by her 
honourable efforts to prevent an attachmen t between her 
brother, a poor young clergyman, and her richly-dowered 
charge. Evil tongues interfere again ; her discretion and 
reserve are represented to the young beauty as tricks of the 
brother and sister to secure herself and her fortune. The 
result is, that while she fancies she is confounding the artful 
and insincere she weaves a net for herself, and sacrifices her 
first chance of happiness. The young clergyman then gives 
his affections to a lady less exacting than Arabella, wl.o wit- 
nesses and envies — despite her assumed pity— her domest'c 
happiness. From this incident the character of the heroine 
may be inferred. A second lover is rejected in spite of yet 
severer pangs than had attended the first rejection, because 
he will keep a corner in his heart for " a departed saint." 
Having exchanged the passive yride of ycuth and beauty for 
the eager vanity of maturity and faded charms, in the hope of 
reviving the affection of a lost lover, she is so imprudent as to 
assume a girlishness of dress and manner which proves fatal to 
the few relics of beauty which yet remained with her. She 
expects to find him a romantic wooer : she forgets that having 
became " elderly" herself, his youthful days also a e past, and 
is sadly disappointed to meet a white-haired gentlemen with 
a rubirund face, troubled with the gout, and carryiig a crutch. 
She had taken particular pains to set off herself to advantage, 
had prepared herself for a scene, but "'this," she exclaim'-, 
" was the last of my illusions, the last day cf my enacting the 
youthful. To diminish the ungraceful expansion of my figure, 
I had discarded two under-draperits, in the shape of quilted 
silk petticoats. This imprudent piece of coquetry exposed me 
to a severe cold;" the effects of which she continued to feel 
during the rest of her life. This lesson of vanity is graced with 
some very just reflections, and sentiments well expressed. 
The following upon girlish love is full of truth. " On looking 
at Frederic Melville, the once pale, interesting, but now lusty 
and fresh-coloured father of a family, I could scarcely forbear 
a smile at the recollection of my former girlish predilection for 
him. How inferior, how immeasurably inferior, was he to 
Lord Clydesdale, in appearance as well as in manner. This 
alteration in his looks, but still more, the total change in my 
own taste and opinions, led me to reflect on the folly of per- 
mitting girls to marry the first object that attracts the juvenile 
fancy, without allowing a reasonable time to elapse, in order 
that the stability of the sentiment may be ascertained. Hew 
few young women would at twenty select the admirer as a 
partner for life who might have captivated them at seventeen ;. 
and how many of the desperate passions, supposed to be eternal, 
would fade away like a dream before the influence of reason, if 
subjected to the ordeal of a couple, or of even one year's absence." 
There are many, in all probability, who will deny the accu- 
racy of Lady Blessington's assumption ; but the experienced 
will admit its correctness. The following upon the jealousy of 
woman's heart is alike sensible and just. " How little did he 
know the heart of woman 1 For though there may be many 
who might be gentle enough to regret an unknown individual 
of their own sex, who is represented as 1 a.ving gonedown young, 
beautiful, and good, to an early grave, while yet love and hope 
would fain have bound her to earth, few have sufficient self 
control to conquer her jealous emotions, while listening to the 
recapitulation of the perfections of the lost one ; or the grief 
her loss had excited iu the breast of the object of her own 
affection. A man precludes a similar confidence from the 
woman he loves, by openly cisplaying his total want of sym- 



pnthy, in allusion to previous attachmcats, even should a 
ivoinaa be so devoid of tart as to make them ; while we of the 
softer sex, though pained to the heart by such disclosures, 
shrink from checking them, though they are hoarded in the 
Hiemory, to be often dwelt upon, but never witnout pain.'* 

Lady Blcssington is eloquent upon the first hours of love. 
" In the course of life there is perhaps, no epoch so delightful 
as the first hours of a passion budding into flower, but not yet 
full blown ; when hope silences the whispers of doubt, and se- 
curity has not destroyed the trembling anxiety that lends to love 
its strong, its thrilling excitement." 

The following simple truths are also elegantly expressed. 
" Nature has implanted in every breast the yearning desire to 
be an object of sympathy and affection to its fellow. The 
young feel it, but they feel, too, the glad consciousness of pos- 
sessing the power to excite and repay the sentiment ; while the 
old are too well aware how unlovely is age, not to distrust the 
appearance of an attachment they fear they are incapable of 
creating. They become suspicious and peevish from this humi- 
liating self-knowledge, and, consequently, less worthy of the 
affection for which they yearn." Such arc Lady Blessington's 
latest confessions ; whether she will be pleased to extend them 
remains to be seen. She evidently knows a great deal about 
that mystery, womans heart, and if she will confine herself to 
its developcmcnt, we shall be among the most gratified of 


Paris, Feb. 23, 1838. 

The Carnival is commenced, and the dullness of the week or 
two that preceded it has given way to mirth and hilarity. The 
people seem all to have awakened from a long slumber, and 
■wherever we go, we all seem to have the sounds of music and 
merriment floating around, and flashes of wit, jettx d'esprit, 
bon mots, &c., piquant, pointed, and harmless, saluting our 
ears, all betokening the pleasure which is experienced, and all 
calculated to awaken delight in those who are most happy 
when they look upon their fellow-creatures' happiness. Le lial 
de f Opera is a very attractive thing here : unlike your masked 
halls in England, which are so many grotesque and vulgar things, 
which no person of taste or character can appear in. The best 
company in Paris frequent this, and it is quite as allowable to 
say " J'ai ete au bal de I'opera," as to say in your own metro- 
polis — " I was last evening at the opera." It is quite impos- 
sible, however, for these entertainments to be naturalized in 
England, the character, manner, tone of thought, and disposi- 
tion of the English, are all hostile to the spirit of it : with us, 
however, it is " native, and to our manner born." Our masked 
ball is interesting because it is frequented by the best company, 
■who amuse others while they amuse themselves. It is surprising 
how emboldened one fetls under a mask. Protected, in the 
crowds of merry-makers, by the domino and mask, for the mask 
is here as sacred as it was in Venice in the olden times, a lady 
accosts her acquaintances, reveals to them circumstances and 
events in their past life which they imagined known to a select 
few only — excites their surprise and wonder, and enjoys their 
embarrassment — teazes them with half disclosures and am- 
biguous phrases, and is lost in the throng directly the victim 
becomes importunate and is anxious for a discovery. The ladies 
are all enveloped from head to foot in black silk or satin 

dominoB, so as to entirely conceal the form, even to the shni>c 
of the head ; and a black mask with a thick hanging curtain 
completely hides the countenance. A pretty English girl, who 
has been the belle of many evening parties, considerably annoyed 

the beautiful Madame de M , and rather maliciously 

taunted her with the gaucherie which had cliaraeterized her 
manner when she made her debut in our fashionable salons. 

Unfortunately Miss R 's mask fell as she ■was retiring, and 

Madame de M recognised her " good-natured friend." 

They are now decided enemies. 

The " sweet singers" have re-established themselves in the 
Salle Ventadour, which is considerably larger than tlie edifice 
from which they were burnt out. Everybody is satisfied with 
the new arrangements. There is a great deal of speculation 
about the probabilities of Persiani, and bets to a large amount 
are pending, as to her success in London. Great expectations 
are raised, I know, and her admirers say that she cannot pos- 
sibly fail ; some go so far, indeed, as to say that she will eclipse 
the star of Giulietta. But that, of course, is mere " gossip." 
You will soon have an opportunity of judging of her voice aud 

Duprez is in high favour. The King is delighted with his 
singing. At a ball and concert the other evening, at the 
Tuileries, this fashionable vocalist was engaged with the 
Italian singers, and his success was most flattering, for after 
his air from Guillaume Tell, the King himself walked up to him, 
and thanked him for the extreme pleasure he had afforded him. 
Duprez sang also an air from Lara, an opera composed by a 
Danish nobleman, the Count de Ruoltz. This composer is not 
much known out of Naples, where this opera made a complete 
furore during Duprez' engagement at the Teatro di San Carlo. 
M. de Ruoltz is of the modern school, but his melodies have 
more originality than Donizetti's, and the style is more 

The pretty Duchess of Orleans was not able to attend this 
concert in consequence of an attack of erysipelas, but I am 
happy to say that she is quite recovered. I had the pleasure of 
meeting her and her royal consort, subsequently, walking arm- 
in-arm in the garden of the Tuileries, without any attendants. 
They were looking remarkably well, and remarkably happy. 

I have an exquisite piece of news now t(f tell yo\i. You 
recollect the — Adonis — the Narcissus — the Apollo-Belvedere — 

the Marchese dc C , who made a little sensation in your 

fashionable circles last year : well, what do you think he is 
going to do .' He has actually entered into an engagement 
with the opera-managers, and is going to make his debut in 
Robert le Diuble. He has a fine voice, and will be a formidable 
rival to Duprez. He is much handsomer, and is therefore more 
likely to be the chief favourite. 

At one of the Tuileries balls which have been attended by all 
the beauty and rank in Paris, the Count d'Appony presented to 
their Majesties the young Prince George Lubominski, a Polish 
nobleman, who appeared in f\ill Polish costume, aud attracted 
the admiration of the whole Court. 

The Princess of C is etill among us ; she who was once 

a bright piu'ticular star, which attracted the notice of all 
beholders ; but her popularity is past. It is possible that her 
greatness sits heavily upon her ; for she is somewhat in the 
situation which Mahomet's cotlin is said to be in, suspended 
between heaven and earth, neither a princess nor a subject. 
She stands alone, between the two grades of society. She 

must regret the time when, courted and admired as Miss S , 

her beauty secured her admission everywhere. Was it love 



vhich induced her to change her state, or vaulting ambition, 
■which o'erleaps itself ? She is an amiable and beautiful woman, 
■and there can be no one that does not wish her all possible 

The receptions at the Embassy continue every Friday even- 
ing ; but amidst all the beauty and elegance there assembled, I 
cannot but miss the majestic form of her Grace of Sutherland, 
who was the planet in that hemisphere of stars. 

The Count d'Appooy's ball was brilliant and well attended. 
The Duke of Orleans and his brother of Nemours were present. 
The Duchess of Orleans had given hopes that she would also 
honour the Austrian Ambassador's by her presence, but her 
health prevented her leaving her room. There were upwards 
of two thousand persons of rank, beauty and fashion. The 
orchestra was conducted by Strauss, of waltz renown, and this 
ball had nearly been the last at which he would ever have pre- 
sided, for on returning home he had a most providential escape 
of his life. He had taken a cabriolet, and had fallen to sleep 
after his fatigues, when he was roused by the driver suddenly 
throwing himself out of his vehicle. M. Strauss instinctively 
followed his example, fell on the pavement, and was deprived 
of sensation for some time. When he recovered, he found him- 
self on the esplanade, close to the Invalides, not far from the 
Hotel de I'Ambassadc, and that he was within a f«w feet of the 
■river ; the cabriolet and driver had disappeared, and no traces 
of either having been discovered, it is probable that both have 
disappeared under the ice of the Seine. 

A young English lady, resident in Paris, has been the star of 
one of the Tuileries bails. The Parisians have long since pro- 
nounced Miss B k to be vjie persunne parfaitement belle. I 

was almost tempted to write the name in full, but I knew I 
should call the blushes into the fair face of its lovely possessor ; 
for she values not so evanescent an advantage, and shrinks from 

At the Court balls I have noticed the use of trains, which 
are becomingly introduced, and which I hear are likely to be 
popular in the Court of London. I should think, however, the 
innovation to be extremely inconvenient. In crowded rooms 
they be particularly unpleasant, and sure I am that they 
will occasiou many frowns to be seen \ipon beautiful faces, and 
•cause many harsh words to escape from lips wherefrom only 
sweet music should issue. 

An amusing story is being told of one of your countrymen, 
whose lady is making a figure in our salons. She is going to 
give a ball, and report says that it will be a very splendid 
thing ; the day, however, has been fixed several times, but as 
often altered. The other day, the good-natured spouse of the 
lady, who finds French champagne much more agreeable than 
English gooseberry, awoke with some vague idea of this great 
forthcoming ball. The fumes of the mousscux were not quite 
dissipated when that recollection shot across his mind, and in 
this state he sallied forth to take the benefit of the air. 
During his rambles under the gallery of the Rue de Rivoli, he 
met and was accosted by numbers of his acquaintance, the 
sight of whom again recalled to his memory the long meditated 
ball. Firmly believing that Thursday was the day which had 
been fixed, he addressed all those who chose to listen with — 
*' We shall see you on Thursday, I hope ?" — " Thursday ! 
where.'" comes the reply. " Why, at my ball, of course : 
there has been some confusion in the invitations, but it is all 
arranged now, and so pray come, &c. &c. This gentleman's 
foible is so well known among the fashionables in Paris, that 
many believed there might have been originally some mistake 

in the invitations, and therefore determined not to stand on any 
further ceremony, but accept this somewhat cavalier invitation, 
given so/te il del sereno. Luckily, however, on Thursday morn- 
ing, Mrs B received a note, with a request from a friend 

to be allowed to introduce another at her ball that evening. 

Mrs. B was in perfect amazement, almost doubting her 

own eyes ; and at length, not being able to comprehend the 
meaning of the note, passed it to her liege lord, who, being now 
in full possession of his senses, avows his blunder, which he 
had totally forgotten, — the remembrance of his invitations 
having evaporated with the fumes of the champagne, and being 
recalled only by the note in question. The good-natured lady, 
who bears all these infirmities with exemplary patience, 
instantly ordered her carriage, aud spent the whole day in 
repairing the blunders of her husband. 

I see, by your " World of Fashion," that great things are 
expected to be done in the Court of London this season, and 1 
sincerely hope that your highest expectations may be realized. 
You have a beautiful and excellent Q.ueen, and I trust that her 
loveliness and virtues will call out all the gallantry and spirit 
of the English people. 


MusARD. — An attempt has been made to es'tablish these 
performances at the Colosseum, and with some degree of suc- 
cess, though not, perhaps, to an extent sufficient to reimburse 
the directors, which we should say was their own fault. Their 
orchestra is good, aud well conducted, but there is no novelty 
about the performance ; old worn out overtures, and the same 
programme every time, without a single piece changed, is not 
the way to ensure success, and certainly not the means by which 
MusARD, Valentino, &c., at Paris, raised their concerts so 
highly in popular favour. The solos were well played, particu- 
larly on the flageolet, by Streather ; and the cornet a piston, 
by Laurent. We wish the undertaking success, and when 
they give something in the way of novelty, we doubt not they 
will find it answer their purpose. 

The Distin Family, in conjunction with the Rainer 
Family, have been giving daily concerts at the Argyle Rooms. 
The DiSTiNS consist of the father and four sons, who perform 
on two keyed bugles, two French horns, and a trombone, and 
they play the various popular airs from the different operas 
with much taste and precision. The concerted piece from Anna 
Bolena, ' 'Perquesta Jiammalndomita" , was extremely well played. 
The Rainer Family are the same that were here a few year's 
since, and have brought with them some new melodies. During 
the time they were last in this country, they cleared the sum of 
six thousand pounds, and they are now established as Auber- 
GiSTES in the Silver Valley of the Tyrol. 

There are also several quartet concerts in progress, by Mori, 
LiNDLEY, &c. ; and also by Puzzi, Bauman, &c. ; but as 
they possess little attraction, the public are not patronising 
them, excepting such part of the public as are admitted free, 
and these are generally to be known by their vociferous appro- 
bation of some illustrious obscure. The conducters of these 
concerts must imagine people are very ready to part with their 
money, if they suppose such concerts as these are to be paid for 
almost at the -same rate as when the whole of the foreign 
artistes are in town, and lending their powerful support. 




RooKii's Opera of Amelia Una been published by IJuff and 
Co. of Oxford istreet, but we must admit that it does not 
please us so well as on the stage ; it is there only we hear it to 
advantage, the situations and the music being in admirable 
keeping. For amateurs there is a sad want of " motifs," 
nothing caUulated to attract atteatiou in a drawing-room; 
roulades and chromatic passages are very well adapted for 
Prima Donna's, bi t ladies when singing arc sensibly accustomed 
to choose music where the How of melody supplies the place of 
unmeaning tuurn de force, and where the feelings are touched 
byiathos and simplicity, rather than by ascending and descend- 
in? with wonderful rapidity by octaves at a time. Portions of 
the Domino Noir have also been published in Loni'on, and 
what we have seen are really very pretty, particularly an 
Arragonese melody, by no means difficult to execute and yet 
very effective. 

Some of Musard's quadiilles have been published in Lon- 
don, but as the French copies are generally more correct and 
less in price, we do not imagine they will have much sale, par- 
ticularly as the Foreign houses have them in London almost as 
soon as they are published in Paris. We must advise our 
readers of one thing, that whilst they are purchasing foreign 
mu ic, they should remember that French music is always 
marked at double the price it sells for, so that if a set of 
quadrilles be marked at five francs, two francs and a half is the 
amount at which they sell in Paris ; we are unable to state 
the reason of its being so, but have little doubt it is for the 
purpose of some deception being practised. We know not if 
I?alke's Opera oi Joan of Are has been published, but judging 
from its success at Drury Lane, we should rather imagine not. 
Music publishers, however, will venture on almost any thing, 
and it is inconceivable the quantity of trash issued by them 
every year, and which finds a sale in the country, simply 
because the music sellers force it off as the most popular 
things ofc he season. 



OPERA BUFFA. — Marcadante's opera of Eliza and 
Claudio was performed with some success ; it is not a first-rate 
opera, as it abounds too much in mannerisms of different com- 
posers of the Rossini school, though some of the airs are 
written with much taste and spirit, particularly the duct, ' sc un 
inslanler," which is by far the best thing Mkrcadante ever 
wrote, yet there is a want of relief about it that renders it 
rather flat. Scheroni acquitted herself very creditably in the 
execution of the ditflcult music assigned to Elisa, as she has 
nearly the whole weight of the opera to sustain, and Miss 
Wyndmam was encored in an introduced air which was one 
of the best things of the evening. Catone had only an air in 
the first act of the opera, which he sang charmingly, making us 
deeply regret it was the only during the evening ; nearly all the 
newspapers gave a long criticism of Lablache's acting and 
singing, which must have high'y amused such of our Subscribers 
as were present at the representation, because they must have 
observed ,as well as ourselves, that he did not play at all in the 
opera, so much for newspaper criticisms ; it is true the pro- 

gramme contained iiiii name, but Lis acting was only in the 
uewsi)aper reports. 

littly and L' Elisir Vaniore were performed by command of 
Heu Majesty, and we were much hurt at the manner in which 
her privacy was invaded. Wliy do not managers take a lesson 
iu this matter from M. Laporte, who is so particular when 
Her Majesty intends to visit the opera-house in private, that 
the circumstance is scarcely ever known but to those imme- 
diately concerned about the theatre; we do not blame Mr. 
Mitchell ou the present occasion, because we known he was 
much annoyed at it, but the bu~y iutcrfercuce of his underlings 
is calculated to do him much harm. 

It is reported to be the intention of Mr. Mitchell to carry 
on this speculation in Dublin, and we can assure those of our 
subscribers in that city who patronize music, that they will find 
the undertaking well worthy their patronage. 

DRURY-LANE. — Since Mr. .Mackkauy commenced his 
self-assigned and honourable task of restoring the legitimate 
drama to the national temples, whercfrom it had been driven by 
ignorant adventurers, the manager of Drury-lane has thought 
it advisable to try what the legitimate drama will do for him, 
and liaving engaged Mr. Charles Kean, two of Siiak- 
SPE are's plays, i/amW and /i.cAur«7/i«r/it>rf, have been produced 
iu a way becoming of the regular drama and of a national 
theatre. We do not think Mr. Charles Kean, however, 
competent to maintain a leading situation at Drury-lane ; for, 
although, circumstances have made him, perhaps, the fashion- 
actor of the day, his acting is of a description that soon tires, 
and the "lion" of this season may be deserted in the next. 
Fashion has had much more to do with the popularity of young 
Kean than merit, and people when they witne.-s his performance 
think more of the man than of the actor, and applaud his private 
conduct when they should be thinking exclusively of his pro- 
fessional merits. Mr. Kean is an amiable young man, and we 
therefore rejoice at the good fortune that has befallen him ; but 
we, nevertheless, cannot think that he will ever be a great 
actor, or that his performances will be popular for any length 
of time. His Richard the Third is an imitation of his father's 
performance, whose excellen'"e Mr. Charles Kean endeavours 
to reach ; but he falls far short of his mark : he has neither the 
intellectual nor the physical greatness of the elder Kean ; he 
cannot strike out a novel idea, nor execute those startling 
orign ilities of his father, which w-ere used to excite such intense 
admiration. In the early scenes of King Richard, Mr. Charles 
Kean displayed a great deal of cleverness ; he spoke the soli- 
loquys well, and in the scene of the wooing of Lady Anne 
reached a point of excellence we did not consider him to be capable 
of ; the scene had evidently been well studied, and it gave us great 
pleasure to witness his able and judicious performance of it. 
The tent scene was played with effect, and the fight with Rich- 
mond at the conclusion of the play was one of the most " terrific 
combats'' we ever witnessed. As a whole, the performance was 
not the work of a great actor. The play had been showily got 
up, with new scenes and dresses. Mrs. Ternan sustained the 
character of Lady Anne with considerable feeling. The rest of 
the performers were not above mediocrity, some were below it. 
When will Mr. Cooper abandon his pump-handle action ? 
First one hand goes, then ^he other, and the curious motion is 
done with such precision, and with so grave a look and air, that 
we find it difficult to keep from laughing, even iu the midst of 
the tragedy he happens to be playing in. 

There was nothing besides the revival King Richard the Third 
in the way of novelty at Drury-lane during the monuth. 


COVENT-GARDEN.— Mr. Macready's fine performance 
T)f King Lear continues to be highly attractive at tl\is theatre, 
where also a new five-act play has been produced with the most 
perfect — we may say triumphant — success. It is called The 
Lady of Lyons ; or, Love and Pride. It is not a first-rate pro- 
dnction, but it is, nevertheless, highly interesting, and has a 
Very powerful effect. It is founded upon the same story that 
was dramatized by Tobin in his comedy of The Honeymoon, 
but in this piece a graver use is made ol it. The story has 
more in it of romance than reality ; indeed, occasionally, its 
improbability is so clearly apparent, that nothing but the splen- 
did acting of Macready and Helen Faucitt could make it 
ad.nired. Mons. Deschappelles is a rich merchant of Lyons, 
with a proud and foolish wife and daughter. The young lady 
has refused the hands of many suitors — among others of the rich 
M. Beausent, whose father before the Revolution had been a 
Marquis, and also of M. Glavis, the friend of Beausent. Besides 
these lovers, there is Melnotte (Mr. Macready) the pride of 
the village, in which he is a peasant. His father had been a 
gardener, and had left him a trifle of money, whereupon he 
takes to painting, principally, as it appears, with a view of 
earning fame and fortune, that he may be worthy of the beautiful 
Pauline, with whom he, also, is enamoured. 

At the opening of the play, Beausent and Glavis, hearing of 
Melnotte's love for Pauline, lay a scheme for humbling her pride, 
by dressing up this young fellow in fine clothes, causing him to 
pass for the Prince of Como, and so woo and win the lady, and 
then take her to the gardener's hut as her future home. This 
scheme is proposed to Melnotte, just after some verses, which 
he had sent to Pauline, have been returned to him. Melnotte 
enters into the scheme of the disappointed gentlemen lovers, 
and plays the Prince successfully, thoiigh he cannot forbear 
sundry sarcastic reflections all the while upon the absurdity of 
any preference being shown to a Princely station. The proud 
Pauline is brought home to the cottage of the gardener's son, 
who is by this time sorry for the deceit he had practised, and 
unable to tell his wife that she is not a Princess. This, how- 
ever, is accomplished by his mother. Pauline is dreadfully 
enraged, but her heart relents, and she finds that, after all, 
she does love the gardener's son. He in the meantime is so 
full of remorse for having deceived her that he gives her a 
writing of divorce, sends her to occupy her chamber alone, 
and goes to fetch her father, that he may take her 
back. In the meantime comes Beausent to tempt her to leave 
the cottage and live with him in his house. She resists, and 
while resisting Melnotte comes back, and she faints in his arms. 
Notwithstanding all this, he determines upon going to the wars, 
because in Republican France e\en a peasant might rise to be 
a General, and, finally, though Pauline says she loves him to 
distraction, and will hav3 him for her husband, and will not be 
divorced, he sets ofl^ with her cousin. Colonel Damas, to the 
wars, that he may wash out in the enemies of France the stain 
upon his conscience of having deceived Pauline. This is the 
state of affairs at the end of the fourth act, between which and 
the fifth an interval of two years and a half is understood to 
elapse. In the meantime Melnotte, under the name of Morier, 
has performed prodigies of valour and won a very pretty for- 
tune. Also he has become a Colonel. While he has been thus 
rapidly climbing up the steep of fortune, his father-in-law, the 
rich merchant, has been as rapidly going down ; and, in fact, 
the very day that Melnotte, comes back to Lyons to claim his 
wife, a commission of bankruptcy is about to fall, like an 
avalanche, upon the head of Deschappelles. To escape this he 

must have an advance of money. He knows no one from wiiom 
to get the cash, save Beausent, and he will not pay down with- 
out the hand of Pauline, as value in exchange. Pauline, still 
deeply in love with her wanderer, Melnotte, loves her father too 
well to behold his ruin, and is about to sign a marriage con- 
tract with Beausent. Melnotte hears of the approaching mar- 
riage without knowing the cause, and is in despair, but at 
length, following the counsel of his friend Damas, he is induced 
to go to the house of the lady's father, and see how matters 
really stand. There he finds Beausent and the notary, and 
everything just about to be concluded for the purchase of the 
fair Pauline. After considerable delay and some agony, he finds 
out that it is merely an affair of money, and then, taking out 
his pocket-book, he insists on his prior right to pay the debts 
of his father-in-law. Beausent goes off in a rage of disappoint- 
ment, and the piece concludes with making all the parties that 
deserve to be happy, very much so 

It will be seen by this description of the plot, that there is 
much improbality in it, and that some of its features are very 
absurd, but the improbabilities and absurdities are forgotten in 
the spectators' admiration of the brilliant talents displayed by 
Macready and Helen Faucitt in the two principal cha- 
racters, Melnotte and Pauline. Macready was never more 
successful than in his delineation of the enthusiasm of the 
young artist, who had nursed the one hope of Pauline's love for 
years, and toiled on in the expectation of one day being thought 
worthy of her. Miss Faucitt, also, was seen to great advan- 
tage in the character of Pauline. There was one beautiful scene 
in the piece which elicited universal applause, a garden-scene in 
which Melnotte is walking with Pauline, and discoursing of the 
beauties of the home of love, to which, he says, he is about to 
conduct her. ' There is a little extravagance in the language, 
but the idea is extremely beautiful, and the words were de- 
livered by Mr. Macready with the most exquisite and touch- 
ing expression. 

" A palace, lifting to eternal summer 
Its marble walls from out a glossy bower 
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds. 
Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon, 
We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder 
Why earth could be unhappy, while the heaven 
Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends 
That were not lovers ; no ambition, save 
To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books 
That were not tales of love — that we might smile 
To think how poorly eloquence of words 
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 
And when night came amidst the breathless heavens 
We'd guess what star should be our home, when love 
Becomes immortal, while the perfumed light 
Stole thro' the mists of alabaster lamps. 
And every air was heavy with the sighs 
Of orange groves, and music from sweet lutes 
And murmurs of low fountains fed from tubes 
Distilling rose leaves ! Dost thou like the picture ?" 
We never recollect a first representation that was attended 
with greater success than was enjoyed by the present perform- 
ance. The new play will doubtless be attractive for a long 
time to come. 

Auber's opera of the Black Domino has been produced here, 
and with some success. The music is not very original, but it 
is light and pleasing, and some of the concerted pieces have a 
very agreeable effect. Miss Shirreff's acting and singing in 



tUe character of the Domino Niiir, merit preat praise. Mr. 
Wilson, Mr. Manvers, and Miss P. Morton, sustain tlie 
other vocal characters with taste and ability. 

OLYMPIC. — Madame Vestris finds her performances so 
attractive as to require no novelty to lure the public to her 
charming little cabinet theatre. The Ringdoves, Shocking Events; 
The Black Domino, and Puss in Hoots, have delighted, and con- 
tinue to delight, numeroui and fashionable audiences. 

ADELPHI. — An extraordinary being, whom Mr. Yates 
pleases to call Signor Hervio Nano, has appeared at this 
theatre, in a burletta entitled The Gnome Fly, in which he 
mimics a baboon to the life, aud executes some astonishing 
feats in the character of a fly. Signor Hervio is no Italian, 
though he is a very clever fellow ; he flies about the stage, and 
crosses the ceiling with his heels upwards, with surprising 
alacrity : his name is Leach, and he is known in many parts 
of the country, and also, we believe, to the visitors of some of 
the Parisian theatres, wliere he played some time ago, under 
the name of Hervey. A new melo-drama of considerable 
interest has also been produced here, entitled A Maiden's Fame; 
or, a Legend of Lisbon, in which Mrs. Yates has some excelleot 
opportunities afforded her for the manifestation of her tragic 
abilities, and which she makes very excellent use of. Mrs. 
Nisbett and Mr. Yates are also seen to advantage in this 
piece. The Adelphi has also had its versionof 'i'/ieZ)emtnoNotr, 
CITY OF LONDON.— It is worth a pilgrimage to the east 
to witness the spirited acting, and hear the delightful songs of 
the lady spirit that presides over this dramatic temple. 37k 
Spirit of the Rhine, in which Mrs. Honey sings her charming 
German song, My Beautiful Rhine, as nobody else in the world 
can sing it, and which nobody of soul or sense can possibly 
become tired of hearing her sing, has been played to delighted 
audiences. Paul Clifford, an opera founded upon Bulwer's 
novel, has also been produced here, Mr. Collins, late of 
Covent Garden and the Haymarket, sustaining the character 
of the hero very eff'ectively. Lucy Brandon is enacted by Mrs. 
Honey, with admirable talent and excellent effect ; her songs, 
too, are full of feeling and true and delightful expression. 
The opera of Cinderella has been finely given ; Miss Bykield, 
Mr. Lenox, and Mr, Collins, taking the principal parts. 
Perfection, and some other clever burlettas have also been played 
at this attractive little theatre, with decided success. 



A young maiden's heart 

Is a rich soil, wherein lie many gems 
Hid by the cunning hand of nature there, 
To put forth blossoms in their fullest season ; 
And tho' the love of home first breaks the soil, 
With its embracing tendrils clasping it, 
Other aflfections, strong and warm, will grow. 
While one that fades, as summer's flush of bloom, 
Succeeds the gentle bidding of the spring." 

^ The Star of Seville. 

It vrould almost seem that the science of meteorology was in 
«ome way connected with matrimony ; for experience shews 
that in the dull cold months there are but few votaries at the 
temple of Hymen. We throw out this suggestion for the 
attention of that fortunate gentleman, Mr. Murphy, whose 
abilities may be exerted upon a companion to his " Weather 
Almanac," which would probably sell quite as well. A 

Marriage Almanac would be a very attractive thiny. Every 
young lady and gentleman who hope to be married, would buy 
it ; for there they might learn when tempers and disposition* 
are " fair," and when they are " frosty," when they are 
" overcast," or "cold," or " cloudy;" and no lover would 
be 80 exceedingly rash as to make an offer of his heart and 
hand when the Murphy, (or Marriage Almantc) indicated it to 
be " the lowest degree of winter temperature." We hope the 
worthy " F. N. S." will take the hint. The marriages of the 
past month have been f«w and unimportant. Elizabeth 
Isabella, daughter of the late Major Johnstone has been 
led to the hymeneal altar by Gkorge A. Martin, Esq., M.D. 
Caroline Mary, daughter of the late G. Hudleston, Esq. 
of Greenfield, has given her hand to the Rev. Dr. Dicken, 
Rector of Norton, Suffolk. At Paris, the Viscount DU Pin 
Delagueriviere, Chevalier of the Order of Malta, Nephew 
of the Duke of Reggio, has been happily united to Emmeline, 
eldest daughter of Charles Purton Cooper, Esq., one of 
Her Majesty's Counsel. 

Fashionable society has been despoiled of some of its 
ornaments by the hand of death. The Countess of Essex has 
gone to her eternal rest, and so has the young Lord R. W. 
Butler, fourth son of the Marquess of Ormonii : he was in the 
21st year of his age. The Countess Dowager of Rosse is 
also among the great departed, so is Lord George Hervey, 
(who died at Pau, in the Pyrenees) and the Earl of Carrick. 
Although the marriages have been few, we hear of pre- 
parations for many. The Earl of Courtown will shortly 
lead to the altar the Lady Eleanor Howard, eldest 
daughter of the Eari and Countess of Wicklow. Her Lady- 
ship has just completed her 21st year. The Noble Earl is a 
widower, having married, in 1822, a sister of the present 
Duke of Buccleuch, by whom there are three children. We 
understand that Captain Octavius Vernon Harcoort, son 
of his Grace the Archbishop of York, wiU shortly be united to 
to Mrs. Danby, widow of the late William Danby, Esq., 
of Swinton Park, Yorkshire. It is rumoured that a marriage 
is on the tapis between the Hon. Mr. Bouvkrie Primrose, 
only brother to Lord Dalment, and Miss F. Anson, daughter 
of Lady Anson. The Eari of Arran, it is said, will shortly 
be united to Miss Napier, daughter of Colonel Napier. We 
understand that Miss Herbert, sister of Mr. Herbert, who 
married the daughter of Mr. and Lady Eleanor Balfour 
last season, will shortly bestow her hand on Mr. Stewart, 
only son of Lady Catubrine Stbwart, and cousin to the 
Earl of Galloway. 


Amyntor's beautiful little tale came too late for insertion in 
our present number. It shall appear in our next. 

The author of "Golden Lines" has wrongly described 
them ; he should have written leaden ones. ^^ 

Philander should not have attempted to write upon " Love, 
since it is very clear that he knows nothing about it. 

Louisa. Yes. 

Henry the 4th and the Basque Girl has already been the sub- 
ject of a tale in this Magazine. L. E. L. has also written a 
beautiful poem on the subject. We should else have had much 
pleasure in publishing the interesting contribution of " M." 

StanzM to the Stars are not sufficiently bright. 

The contributions of Belmont, &nd Miss E. C, came too late. 
They shall appear in our next. 


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A robe of pink velours ejnnglp, trimmed round the border with 
a wreath of leaves in dead gold ; a gerbe of them ascends on 
each side of the front as high as the knee. Corsage drape, 
trimmed with blond, standing up on each side of the bust. 
Short sleeves, the lower part moderately full, and arranged 
en bouffant by gold leaves. The hair is disposed in ringlets 
in front, and a twisted knot behind ; it is ornamented with a 
wreath of gold leaves, terminated by a red rose with buds aud 


Fig. 2. — Robe of white spotted tuUe, over white satin ; 
the skirt is looped a little on one side by a knot of white 
satin ribon, in which a rose is inserted. Pointed corsage, 
draped ^ la Sevigne, and ornamented with a rose in the centre. 
Short tight sleeve, finished with a manehetfe of gauffered 
tulle, a knot of ribbon and a rose. The hair dressed as de- 
scribed above, is decorated with oak leaves, and gold roses. 


1. — Social Party Evening Dresses. — Robe of lavender 
grey velours epingle, corsage and sleeves trimmed with gauffred 
tulle ; head-dress a bonnet a la Bubet of gaffred tidle, trimmed 
with oiseau ribbons. 

2. — Fichu a la Paysanne of tulle, trimmed with blonde illusion ; 
and a bonnet a la Paysanne of embroidered tulle, ornamented 
with roses and rose ribbon. 

3. — Fichu a pointe of tulle, trimmed with the same and knots 
of ribbon. Tu/le bonnet bouillonnee, decorated with ribbons 
en suite and roses. 

4. — Pelerine a revers of English lace, and Norman peasant's 
cap of English lace, trimmed with flowers and rose ribbon. 

5. — Head-dress of hair, decorated with a gold and velvet 
bundemu and velvet knots. 

fancy ball dress. 
Fig. 1. — This costume, which is that of a sheperdess of the 
opera in the time of Louis XIV., is composed of a white satin 
petticoat, striped with gold, and trimmed with gold blond lace, 
looped in draperies by shaded marabouts, and knots of rose and 
green ribbon. Rose satin boddice, trimmed en suite. Head- 
dress a pouff of rose and white tulle, with long floating ends of 
the latter ; it is adorned with white feathers, shaded with green. 


Fig. 2. — White satin robe, the front is trimmed with lace 

and ribbon arranged a la Fontange. Blue satin paletot, lined 
with ermine. Head-dress of hair, adorned with flowers. 


Fig. 3. — Lemon-coloured satin robe, the front is trimmed en 
demi tablier, with white satin draperies, finished by gold fringe, 
and arranged id the cone form, with a knot of ribbon at the 
point ; corsage a la Ninon, trimmed with blond and ribbon. The 
head-dress is a chapel of groseille velours epingle, trimmed with 
white ostrich feathers ; a burnished gold bandeau completes the 
ornaments of the coiffure. 


1. — Costume de Spectacle. — White satin robe ; violet 
velvet mantelet, trimmed with swans' -down. Tulle bonnet a la 
Charlotte Corday, trimmed with blond lace, pink flowers, and 
pink ribbons. 

2. — Evening Dress. — White crape robe over white satin, 
it is trimmed with lilac ribbon. Head-dress of hair, deco- 
rated en svite. 

3. Evening Dress. — White gauze robe over white satin, 

the corsage in crossed drapery, and decorated with pink ribbons. 
Hair dressed a la Sevign^, and adorned with roses. 

evening dress. 

Fig. 1. — White satin petticoat, trimmed with a deep flounce 
of gold blond lace. Green velvet open robe, the corsage deco- 
rated with gold chefs, and a diamond brooch. Short sleeves, 
finished by a triple bouillon and a superb manchette of gold 
blond lace. Head-dress of hair a la Berthe, decorated with 
diamonds and a gold baudeau. 

opera dress. 

Fig: 2. — Printed satin robe, draped corsage, and short 
sleeves a la Venetienne. Sable mantelet. Turban of striped 
scarlet and gold brocade. .. 

BALL dress. 

Fig 3. — White tulle robe over satin ; it is bordered with a 
bouillon of the same material, and trimmed en tablier -with 
flowers. A very low corsage, finished by a double fall of blond 
lace, set on full. Sleeves trimmed with blond flowers and ends 
of ribbon. 

fashionable MILLINERY. 

4. — Evening Cap composed of blond lace, cherry- coloured 
ribbon, and marabous. 

5. — Head-dress of Hair, decorated with ruban a treillage. 
6. — Crimson velvet turban, ornamented with chefs d'or. 




Wf lire nnw in the most splendid month of tlic year, when 
the liixrry of the toilette is carried to its height. Wc cannot, 
indeed, expert quite so much novelty as in the beginning of the 
ncasnn ,hut if the details are less varied, they are. perhaps, more 
magnificent. Our prints contain some elegant novelties ; let 
us sec what else we have that is worthy of the attentions of 
our fair readers, and first for 

OtT-DooR CosTi-MP..— Ihe cold weather that has lasted so 
long, makes our e'lf'yanlts so fond of wrapping up, that we 



FlO 1. — Rohe of white /i(//e blonde over white satin; the I 
tikirt is looped at the left knee by a gprbe of flowers which ' 
reaches from thence to the bottom of the corsaye, which is 
finiohed by a fall of blond lace set in in the jacket style ; the 
top of the rursatje is decorated with a bouillon of tiillf, it is 
finished by a full fall of blond, and drawn by a pink ribbon, form- 
ing a rosette, in the centre, i^hort full sleeve, terininntcd by a 
Jdond •■ulflc, ornamented with a ros<-. The hair is disposed at 
the sides in soft and |)latted braids, and in a twisted knot 
behind. A circlet of fancy jewellery encircles the knot, and a 
white ostrich feather is inserted in it. 


Fig. 2. — Demi-reihntjole of pink figured satin, trimmed en 
tub icr with English point lace ; the border is decorated with a 
broad ro/u)i,with a licadinir en bouillonnoe, finished by rosettes of 
ribb(m ; low corsage, trinimcil with a lace pelerine. Manclie h 
/ii Donna Mitria. Hlack velvet hat, of a small size ; the interior 
of the brim is decorated with silver e/ws, and a rose. A profu- 
sion of pink ostrich feathers adorn the cro%vn. 


Fig 3. — Yellow crape robe, looped with white roses, over 
white satin ; pointed corsaye, and short tight sleeves, both 
trimmed with blond. Head-dress of hair ornamented with a 
black lace bandeau and foliage, embroidered in gold, and a golden 



Fig 1. — Robe of pale pink spotted Pekinel ; one side of the 
skirt is trimmed with a wreath of ribbon arranged in a very 
novel manner; it goes round the bottom of the border to the other 
side, where it ends in a nceud ; low corsage, trimmed with a 
triple fall of gautfred tulle ; short sleeves, decorated en suite. 
Head-dress, a gauze turban, decorated with esprils. 


Fig. 2. — Robe of oiseau figured «atin; the skirt is trimmed e>i 
tahliir, with papillon bows of ribbon formed by tassels ; corsage 
trimmed with a round lappel, finished by lace. Sleeves, en suite. 
Head-dress, a petit lord of crimson velvet, decorated with 
shaded feathers. 

Fig. 3. — White crape robe tunique, both dresses bordered with 
flowers at the edge, the upper one is looped by a knot of ribbon, from 
which flowers ascend up the side. A low corsage, trimmed with 
bouillons of tulle, and short sleeves, decorated with bouillons and 
knots of ribbon. Head-dress of hair, ornamented with a gold 
diadem, flowers, and a shaded ostrich feather. 

cannot find much to say of their present attire ; mantles and 
furs are decidedly the order of the day, but we have seen some 
novelties for out door costume, of a very elegant description, 
which will appear in the course of a few days, We may cite 
as among the most remarkable of them 

Mantki.i.ts. — "What!" I think I hear a fair reader 
exclaim, " always mantelets ?'' It is trne that they have been 
a long time in favour, but that is not our fault, they are so 
pretty, so graceful, that ladies will not lay them aside; the 
forms also and the trimmings vary. Those that we are now 
speaking of, are of a large size, particularly at the back, they 
fall very low, but arc rounded so as not to encumber the arm, 
and the long scarf fronts are of moderate width ; the collar is 
round, small, and of the falling kind. We should observe that 
these mantelets are made both with velvet and satin ; they are 
cut round in very deep scollops, each having one large flower, 
or a tuft of small flowers, embroidered in coloured silks, in the 
centre ; the effect is beautiful. The mantelet is always of a full 
colour ; black is very prevalent, so likewise arc violet, ruby, 
and green. The lining is either pale pink or white. We mnst 
not omit to say that they are always wadded. 

Velvkt High Drkssks with short round mantles to cor- 
respond, both trimmed with sable, are very much in favour. 
The robes are finished at the bottom with a broad flat border of 
sable. The corsages, made high and plain, have no trimming, 
but the sleeves, which are disposed in tight longitudinal folds 
at the top, and a full bouffant in the centre, are finished with 
very deep fur cuffs. The mantelets aic something of the 
Spanish form, they descend about half way to the knee, being 
cut bias, they fall easy and gracefully, without being full on 
the shoulders, but they sit extremely full round the figure. 
They are made with pelerine Jichus of a small size, the fur that 
borders the mtntclet is as broad as that on the bottom of the 
dress, but it is much narrower on the pelerine and the arm 

Hats and Bonnkts. — Wc have given in our prints all 
that had any actual claim to novelty, and we have only to 
observe in general that wadded bonnets begin to decline in 
estimation, though they cannot yet be said to be unfashionable. 
Drawn bonnets are also losing ground in favour. Velvet 
bonnets, of the chapeux capote shape, trimmed with a bouquet 
of murahouts, or hats with the brims extending round the back 
of the crown, are the most in favour ; these last are variously 
trimmed, but the most simply elegant still, in our opinion, is 
satin ribbon of the same colour, and a long flat ostrich feather 
also to correspond, which winds in a spiral direction round the 

Morning Dress is more distincruishcd for richness and 
comfort than for actual novelty. Robes de Clwmbre continue 
their vogue. We have recently seen some of white Cashmere, 
lined with pale blue silk, and trimmed with a border of blue 
velvet, which was scalloped 'all round, and which being much 
deeper towards the bottom of the front of the skirt than at the 
waist, formed in a slight degree a tablier. High dresses, both 
of satin and Cashmere, are also much in vogue, and wc have 
seen a good many of merinos, but the two former materials 
are preferred. These dresses are made in a very plain style ; 
they owe the elegance of their appearance to their accessories, 
of which we must not omit to make honourable mention ; and 
first : — 

Tabliers are almost universally adopted, and they are of 
an e(|ually elegant and expensive kind. We have seen some 



of a new material vduui's Gnc, bordered with fancy trimming, 
and tlie pockets ornamented to correspond. A still more 
novel kind, are of black satin, encircled with a bouillon, 
which is attached by a scarlet piping. These latter aprons are 
rounded at the bottom. We may cite also some aprons of 
rich black gros de Tours, embroidered all round in a wreath of 
vine leaves in various shades of green. 

Morning Collars continue to be worn of a small size, 
some are remarkable for the richness of their embroidery, 
others, and these last are the most novel, are of fine clear 
India muslin, edged with a bouillon of the same material, 
which is set on very full, and through which a coloured ribbon 
is passed. 

Morning Caps.— The most novel are of tulle Sylphide, 
the caul is very low ; the trimming of the front passes in a 
plain band across the forehead, and is disposed very full at the 
sides ; a good many are ornamented with ribbons only. We 
have seen some decorated with a knot of ribbon on one side of 
the caul, and a small tuft of field flowers intermingled with the 
lace on the opposite side of the front. Speaking of caps in 
general, we cannot praise too highly the elegantly simple stile 
in which they are made at present, a still infinitely more 
becoming than the scaffoldings, we really cannot find another 
term for shem, of ribbons, laces and flowers, which were in 
vogue some three or four seasons ago. 

RoBKS FOR Evening Dress.— The materials continue to 
be of the same rich kind as last month, with perhaps more 
brocade and black satin ; the last is particularly fashionable, so 
also IS black velvet, and it must be owned that both are ad- 
mirably calculated to set off rich trimmings and jewels. Pointed 
corsages are decidedly the mode, indeed no others are worn. 
A moderate point is rather graceful, than otherwise, at least to 
a fine shape, but our elegantes wear them at present very much 
in the extreme. Corsages are for the most part cut out very 
much upon the hips, forming a long and sharp point in front, 
and a smaller one behind. Ceintures are laid aside, they could 
not, in fact, be worn with any degree of grace with a corsage of 
this kind, but the place of the ceinture is frequently supplied by 
a superb cordelie're; where this ornament is not adopted, a satin 
piping edges the bottom of the corsage. Trimmings have altered 
very little : flounces continue their vogue, and furs have as yet 
lost nothing of their attraction ; black velvet, or else velvet of 
rich full colours, bordered with ermine, is greatly in favour ; and 
light coloured satins, velvets, and rep velvets, trimmed with 
swan's-down are equally so. These two styles, so different in 
themselves, should be, in our opinion, differently appropriated, 
the first splendid indeed, but rather heavy, ought we think to 
be destined exclusively to matronly belles ; it is certainly the 
costume, par excellence, for mammas and chaperons ; the other 
so light, so graceful, so youthful, even in its richness, should 
certainly be adopted only by juvenile elegantes. 

Coiffures in Evening Dress.— There seems to be at 
present almost a mania for covering the head in evening cos- 
tumes, and the miliners are consequently obliged to rack 
their brains to find something new. We may cite among the 
prettiest novelties coiffures composed of blue crape, which are 
made only to cover the ears, and the summit of the head, they 
are intermingled in front with silver ornaments, and marabous. 
Nothing, we must observe, can be more generally becoming to 
the features than the latter. Another very eleeant style of 
coiffure, is composed of black lace disposed in the "form of large 
leaves, which arc embroidered and ornamented with gold ; a 
rouleau of Idcc round which a string of gold beads is twisted, 

passes across the summit of the head, and retains these orna- 
ments on each side. We do not remember a season in which 
, lace was so much employed in coiffures as at present ; both 
black and white is employed for lappets, and also disposed en 
aureole round the knot of hair at the back of the head. 

Ball Dress. — We see with pleasure that light materials 
continue to be the only ones worn by our elegant danseuses. 
Corsnges are pointed in ball dress, in the style we have already 
described. The sleeves are made excessively short, so much so, 
indeed, that when they are looped with ornaments, the arm is 
left almost bare. We observe that the excessive width of the 
skirts has a most ungraceful effect ; they are arranged round 
the waist so as to fall in very full folds. 

Trimmings of Ball Dresses. — None are made without 
trimming, but the only garnitures adopted by ladies of good 
taste, are flounces, or flowers ; both, indeed, are very often 
united. Where flowers only are used, the mode of looping the 
skirt on one side by a bouquet, has a very good effect. We have 
seen some ball dresses ornamented in a novel and tasteful 
style, with marabouts, or short ostrich feathers, irregularly 
placed, and attached by ornaments of jewellery ; but, although 
this is really an elegant style of deviation, we cannot pronounce 
it a settled fashion. 

Robes TuNiauEs.— They are so called because they have a 
double skirt, that is to say the robe whether of gauze, tulle, or 
crape, has a tunic of the same ; in some instances the under 
dress is of very pale pink or blue satin, but even if it is white 
as is more commonly the case, the corsage which is bouillonnee 
is frequently lined with coloured satin. 

Ball Head-dresses are generally of hair, which continues 
to be dressed very low behind ; ringlets are most in favour in 
front, but they are not exclusively adopted. We may cite as 
an elegant style of decoration for a coiffure Ninon, a wreath of 
vine leaves delicately wrought in gold, with small diamond 
grapes. Stars of either brilliants, or of burnished gold, have 
a superb effect on a coiffure a la Grecque. If the hair is dis- 
posed in bandeaux in front, and a twisted knot behind, a wreath 
of small white roses crossing the forehead, and encircling the 
knot at the back of the head, is elegantly simple. Flowers, 
indeed, are in a decided majority for ball coiffures ; even when 
the robe is superbly trimmed, it frequently happens that the 
hair is ornamented in a very simple manner with flowers • 
wreathes are most in request, but we see a good many coiffures 
decorated with a long light sprig of delicate flowers, as those 
of the peach, double blossomed peach, moss roses, &c. 

Fashionable Colours have not varied since last month 
but several new shades of colours have appeared ; we have to 
notice particularly some very beautiful ones of red, green, and 
grey. Light hues, and particularly white, retain their vogue 
in evening dress. 



The severity of the weather begins to abate, but it is still too 
cold and gloomy to admit of much display in out-door dress, en 
revanche : in-door costume of every kind is more tasteful, and 
certainly more expensive than ever ; but before we enter upon 
that fruitful theme, let us see what is most remarkable in 

Capotes etChapeaux. — We may, as the most fashionable 
among the first, quote the ca;jo/c« of satin^/iistei, which afterhaving 
been for a time laid aside, are now more fashionable than ever. 




There i* nothing more simply elegant thnn one of thcfc bonnets, 
with a knot costu on one Mc ; it is a htiui-drcss suitable to all 
ages, and one of the most generally becoming that we have 
seen, anil it has also the great advantage of being worn without 
heaviness. Velvet and satin are the only materials employed 
for carriage or promenade hats and bonnets. Several of the 
latter, that have the material laid on plain, have the^ brims 
bonlercd with marabouts or swan's-down; this kind of rucA* has 
replaced those of tutif, it is more appropriate to the season, and 
much more becoming. A good many satin ciipules are lined 
with pelufhe or reluurt epingle of the same colour. The ribbons 
employed to trim bonnets urc always figured, and if Howcrs are 
used they are always placed en yrnppe. Hats are nniversally 
adorned with feathers, which are worn round, curled, very long, 
and drooping on the shoulder,— a fashion perfectly devoid of 
grace and elegance ; thws it cannot be expected to be more than 
a whim of the moment. 

KuHEs DK Chamhrk.— The comfortable is the order of the 
day : in this respect certainly nothing can be better calculated 
f«r the ruin du feu, than a rehe ile chumbre, of flanelte AnglaUe, 
of the hhuse form, with a little falling collar. There in no 
crinture, only a broad ribbon, which may be fastened or not at 
the will of the wearer, and which is frequently terminated by 
two tassels, cither of the olive form, or en me'ches. A iimple 
piping, or else a plaiting of ribbon encircles the robe ; this 
trimming must be of the colour of the lining, which is always 
strongly contrasted, as blue and bois, black and straw-colour, 
grey and gold-colour. We see also robes de chambre of rich 
silk, figured in very large patterns ; these have the coisaycs made 
tight to the shape, a deeper collar, and tight sleeves, over which 
are wide hanging ones open at the bottom. It is seldom that 
a dress of either kind is fastened in front, but as they are made 
to wrap over very much, the skirt remains closed in front. 

Rkdinootks enjoy a very great degree of favour ; they are 
adapted both for morning visits and for home dinner-dress. We 
may cite among the most elegant, those of I'ckinct, striped in 
very narrow stripes, in striking colours, upon a brown ground; 
they are closed on one side by a large rouleau, which, descending 
from the waist, goes round the bottom of the skirt, close to the 
rvulian ; on the side, are pallet, or knots, or rosaces of ribbon, 
which mount in a double row on the side, or else in the centre 
of the skirt. In some insUnces very small gold buttons or 
liitle uiyufie</M serve to close the robe. The corsage is plaited 
behind, flat in front, anit descending a little in the centre. Two 
(irctty accessions to these robes arc worthy of mention, one is a 
small peUriiie, pointed beliind, and forming njicliu ti pars in 
front ; the other is a Jichii bracht', of embroi.lcrcd lulle, or 

.Matkriais OF Evening RonKS. — Velvet may Ik; justly 
said to hold the first rank, but the other materials employed are 
not less rich or expensive ; they are, for the most part, tiwir/es, 
»i,lint>'et, or vtloulf'is. The satins Foittunge are really superb ; 
they arc flowered in the loom with a mixture of silk, silver, and 
gold. Some are striped in two colours. We see also several 
robes of reloars epinylt-, white, blue, and rose-colour, figured in 
iffdd or silver ; the effect of this materi:d is really superb. Less 
otriking, but extremely cki;ant, arc the reps of darker hues, 
figured in silk, detrched Imuquels, of a very small size. 


from the soirees at 'he Knifli-^b and the Austrian Ambassadors, 
that we draw our materials for this part of our article, we can- 
ntit do better than de cribe a few eiisnnbles of the toilettes seen 
io tbcjte s|>leuilid taloia. 

L^OY H ._A robe of granite velvet, the corsage tight to 

the shape, cut low, aiul pointed, was encircled with an em- 
broidery in pearls and diamonds. Short sleeves, with a double 
manchette of gold blond lace, looped at the bend of the arm, by 
a knot of pearls and diamonds. Head-dress, a coifiure Isaheaa 
of gold blond lace, with long lappets of the same, descending as 
low as the ciinlure. . - » 

Marciiioni:ss of R ,—Awhite crape robe, open in front, 

and trimmed with a double row of silver blond lace, which was 
retained at each side in three places, at C(iual distances, by 
bouuuels of roses Iromieres, intermingled with diamonds. 1 he 
under-dress, of white moire, was finished with a vulan of silver 
blond lace. Head-dress of hair disposed in tufts, which fall 
over the knot behind : they were intermingled with roses. A 
long pin, set with diamonds, traversed the knot of hair at the 

back of the head. ■ , a \. 

L^m g .p . — A tunic of wUite tuUe, encircled by 

a wreath of volubilis of white velvet with gold foliage ; the 
under robe, which was also of lulle, was trimmed round the 
border with a houHlon of the same material, through which a 
chef d'or is run. Head -dress of hair, ornamented with a 
sprig of volubilis, intermingled with small diamond stars ; it 
was placed very backward and drooping on the neck. 

Gbneral OiisKiiVATiONS ON Fui.L Uress Coiffures.— 
We may cite some that have just appeared as the prettiest that 
have been seen for a long time, they are the petils bonnets a la 
n'urtemburg ; the caul composed of velvet is extremely small, 
it displays the form of the back of the bead, and sits clos.- to 
it • it is terminated by a velvet bavolct, which is lightly looped, 
and forms a becoming tiimming at the back. The front is or- 
namented with a li^ht wreath of foliage of gold and pearls, or 
else very small and light sprigs form a cordon over the fore- 
head, and tufts at the sides. Another novel coiffure worthy ot 
notice is the toque de ranuisr.ance, it is the revival of a fashion 
about two hundred years old ; the most distingue are of ponceau, 
or cherry-coloured velvet, ornamented with a long plume, or 
frosted viarabouts. 

Pktits Birds.— It is necessary to observe that all taese 
head-dresses have the same name, though some are made with 
a crowu, and some without, but those that have not are deci- 
dedly more youthful and elegant than the others : the hind hair 
is disposed in a full plat, which forms either a round or a 
twisted knot ; the brim of the head-dress is always of the same 
form, turned up eu aureole, and placed very fur back upon the 

head. ^ ... 

I'F.TiTs KoxNKTS.— Some of the new ones may be said to 
be a supplement to the head-dresses of which we have been 
speaking, since they produce the same elTect and display the 
back of the head. They are for the most part composed only 
of a lappet either of English point lace, or of blond, which is 
attached on the head by means of two gold pins, which retain 
it at each side ; bouquets of flowers, or coques of ribbon form 
tufts ; the hind hair dressed low, but luxurianUy, descends very 
low in tlie neck. 

JuwKi-i.Kiiv.— The bracelets ier/jcn/s are the most in vogue; 
they arc beautifully and richly wrought. A very pretty orna- 
ment for the throat is composed of a band of black velvet 
about an inch broad, it is fastened at the throat by a buttou 
of gold or precious stones ; the ends of the velvet are crossed, 
' and descend a little on the neck. The same kind of ornament 
formed of u single row of gold chain, in the centre of which is 
a knot of gold with two short ends, to which gold acorns are 
:tuspended, is ;iIso in very great fcivour. 











' ' Endearing — endearing — 

Why so endearing, 
Is that lute-wreathing voice 

Which my rapt soul is hearing ? 
'Tis tenderly singing 

Thy deep love for me. 
And my faithful heart echoes 

Devotion to thee." 

" Who is Lord Elphinstone ?" is the universal inquiry. 
*' Who is Lord Elphinstone, whose name has been men- 
tioned in connection with one of the most interesting reports of 
the day ? " Eager as we are to gratify curiosity upon any matter 
of this kind, we lose no time in laying before our readers a 
genealogical account of the family of this distinguished young 
nobleman, whom, as report says, is destined to occupy one of 
the most prominent and commanding stations in the British 
Court. We must not be supposed to countenance or authorise 
any of the rumours of the day with reference to this subject. 
1 1 may or may not be true that an illustrious personage regards 
him with more favour than any other individual in the Queen's 
dominions, and it may or may not be true that in this case the 
affection is mutual. We do not presume to offer any opinion 
upon the subject ; because all that can at present be said can 
amount to nothing more than surmise. Our purpose is merely 
to show who Lord Elphinstone is, and by reference to the 
history of his family to shew that if the case be as it is 
rumoured, the illustrious personage referred to has not risked 
the dignity of her station by bestowing her affections here. 
The ancestors of the Elphinstones were Germans, who at a 
very early period in our history settled in Scotland in the reign 
of Robert the First, of that kingdom, which was then a separate 
and distinct monarchy from England. The first of the family 
thus located in Scotland, married Margaret, daughter of Sir 
Christopher Seton, ancestor of the Earl of Winton, 
by Lady Christian, his wife, sister to the monarch. 
King Robert the First. By this marriage, the ancestor 
of Lord Elphinstone became possessed of the lands of 
Lothian, to which, after his own name, he gave the 
designation of Elvinton, and that name, in the course 
of time, became altered to that of Elphinstone ; cer- 
tainly more euphonious and agreeable. We pass from the 
founder of this noble and now much-honoured family to Sir 
Alexander Elphinstone, Knight, who was elevated to the 
Scottish peerage in the year 1508, by the title of Baron 
Elphinstone, of Elphinstone, in the county of Stirling. He 
was one of the most distinguished military heroes of the time, 
Vol. XVI. 

and displayed great bravery at the famous battle of Flodden 
Field, where he terminated his career of glory, witti his life. 
This event occurred in the year 1513, which is therefore the 
date of the succession of his son, Alexander, the second 
Baron, who also distinguished himself in the battle field, and 
also met a soldier's death, at the battle of Pinkey, in the 
year 1547. The third Baron was named Robert. He married 
Margaret, daughter of Sir John Drummond, and had three 
sons and a daughter. The youngest son, James, was created 
Lord Balmerino. At the decease of this Lord Elphinstone 
his successor was his eldest son, Alexander, who filled the 
high office of Lord Treasurer of Scotland. He died in 1648, 
and was succeeded by his eldest son, also named Alexander, 
whose life presents no features of particular interest or impor- 
tance. He died in the year 1649, leaving an only daughter, 
LiLiAS (a sweet and excellent name — but like many other 
exquisitely feminine ones, entirely lost), who married her 
father's nephew and successor, Alexander, the sixth Baron 
Elphinstone. His Lordship died in 1654, and left two 
sons who became successive Barons ; the elder having no family, 
the younger, named John, becoming eighth Baron, married 
Isabel, daughter of Charles, third Earl of Lauderdale, 
by whom he had three sons and three daughters, and at his 
decease was succeeded by the eldest, Charles, who was united 
in the rosy fetters of Hymen, to Elizabeth, daughter of Sir 
William Primrose, of Carrington, Bart., ancestor of the 
Earls of Roseberry, by whom be had a family of four sons 
and two daughters, (" the props and staffs of his declining 
years.") At his death, the eldest of the sons succeeded. 

This baron, the tenth, was named Charles. He married 
Clementina, daughter and sole heiress of John, sixth Earl 
of Wigtown. It will be perceived by the reader, that this 
noble family sought alliances with the highest of the nobility, 
and that the blood of the fine old hero who perished on Flodden 
Field, has been preserved through his posterity, unimpaired. 
Seven children resulted from this marriage ; the fourth son, 
George Keith, entered the navy, and having greatly distin- 
guished himself in that profession, and at the same time, 
served his country's interests materially, he was elevated to an 
admiral's rank, and earned the further reward of a baronage, 
having been created Lord Keith, in Ireland, and Viscount 
Keith in the peerage of the British empire. 

Lord Elphinstone having departed this life in the year 
1781, he was siicceeded by his eldest son, John, who was one 
of the representative peers in 1784 and 1790, and also filled 
the office of governor of Edinburgh Castle. His lordship 
married Anne, daughter of James, third Lord Ruthven, by 
whom he had a family of four sons and four daughters. His 
second son, Charles Elphinstone (who had distinguished 
himself in the navy, and risen to the rank of Admiral,) suc- 
ceeded to the estates of the Wigtown family ; in consequence 
of which he assumed their surname of Fleming. Lord 
Elphinstone died August 19, 1794, and was then succeeded 
by his eldest son, John, the father of the present representative 
of this distinguished family. He was the twelfth baron, and 
preferring the military profession, devoted himself to the study 
and practice of arms. He was a lieutenant-general in the 



»riny, nnd a ri)loiicl of the 2Cth foot. He wns united, in IsnP. 
to LJidy Carmiciiaki.. riliii (>i Mr ^tuiN Caumich akl, Uart. 
aiKi jountfcst ilaiifflitiT of (;oRNKr.ns Em.iot, Esq., of 
Wtdlcr, Koxbtirphsliirp. 'Die issue of this marriapre was an 
only son, Jniix, the |irc>rnt peer. His Lordship was lord 
lieutenant of Dumbartonshire, and a representative peer in 
18o:{ nnd ISOfi. He died in the year 1813. 

John P'triiiNSTONK, Haron Ki.rniNSTOXE, of Elphinstone, 
in the county of Stirlinpr, in the peerage of Scotland, was born 
in June 1S07, and is now filling the important office of Govcr- 
nnr of Madras. Some time a^o it was announced that an 
illustrious Lady regarded his Lordship with particular favour ; 
but the rumour was then penernlly disbelieved ; but it has 
iiii>cc been revived, nnd some persons consider that it is not 
altogether destitute of foundation. AVc cannot trace it, how- 
ever, toauy very authentic source. It has become the subject 
of a newspaper controversy, one party declaring that there is 
not the sliijhtest grounds for the rumour, while the other as 
confidently states that " Lord Ei.phinstone has been recalled 
from Madras, and will make his appearance if not at the coro- 
nation, very .soon after." The following is a specimen of the 
tales which are circulated with reference to this interesting 
subject. "The mission of a noble personage to the East," 
says one who professes to have a considerable knowledge of 
the subject, " was very confidently rejiorted to arise from a de- 
sire in a certain quarter to remove him from the presence of 
<mc in whose welfare all of us are concerned. It is now 
rumoured that absence, that severest test of love, has produced 
anything rather than the desired effect, upon one of the parties 
at least. Official ctitjuette rendering his prolonged absence as 
Indispensable as irksome, the young and noble inamorato has 
despatched a confidential friend to England with a packet, said 
to contain not only the usual missives of an absent lover, in the 
form of protesting and imploring epistles, but also a ring given 
to him long since, with a pledge not very dissimilar to that 
which accompanied the ring given by Queen Ei.izahkth to the 
unfortunate Esskx. In short it is said that no commands or 
entreaties could induce the noble person to leave England on 
his important command until, at an iiiterview before his de- 
parture, the Lady gave him this ring, with the assurance that 
whatever request should accompany his return of it should be 
irranted after the occurrences of an event which has occurred 
much earlier than either of the parties anticipated. The ring 
nnd its accompanying request hart- reached the fair hand of her 
who gave the former. Many and such serious difficulties were 
purposely interposed that the fair and persevering Ambassadress 
only succeeded in her purpose by resorting to stratagem. 
Those who are the best qualified to guess correctly, are the 
mr)st positive in predietine that the absent lover will have no 
reason to complain that absence has been injurious to him." 
We give this bit of "gossip," merely because it is the current 
gossip of the day ; we have no reason to believe that there is 
any truth in it ; indeed it seems to us far too romantic to be 
true. Time, however, will shew. 

The arms of Lord Ei.i'hinstone are ar, a chev. sn, between 
thrre boars heads, erased, (/v. Crest : a demi lady from the 
girdle richly attired in vestments, ar. and (jv., holding in 
her dexter hand a tower, ar , masoned, so. ; in her sinister 
hand a branch of laurel, ppr. Supporters, two savages, 
wreathed about the head and loins with l.iurcl, each holding in 
the exterior hand a dart all ppr. Motto : Cause caused It. 
The seat of Lord EErHlNSTONE, is Cuinbi rnauld House, Dun- 


I would not tell thee that I loved, 

Or own the least controul ; 
Yea, rather would I strive to burst 

The bondage of my soul. 
Than let the busy world suspect 

This heart is but the slave 
Of feelings, bending with the yoke 

That bears them to the grave. 

Yea, rather shall a joyous laugh, 

Deceive the gi<l<ly crowd. 
And those who long have judged this heart 

As selfish, cold, and proud, 
Shall never know that it would yield 

To one — who never sought, 
Who valued not a word or look. 

And never claimed a thought. 

Countess of Wootten. 



Fare thee well ! — We met in sorrow. 
Fare thee well ! — We part in pain ; 

Long the night and drear the morrow. 

Ere we two shall meet again '." — T. S. C. 

It was one of those fair unclouded nights so peculiar to the 
sunny land of Italy, where Rosalie Vavasour, a fair young 
English girl, the only daughter of Sir Gilbert Vavasour, accom- 
panied her parent to a masked fete, given by the Count Maz- 
ziano, the owner of one of the most splendid estates in the 
vicinity of Florence, "fair city of the sun." She had not 
expected to meet much company, for the Count was more 
remarkable for his wealth than his connections, which latter 
were composed chiefly of parasites and fawners, who are ever 
found in great abundance gathered around wealth. He was a 
man of no intellect, but his immense property gave him a cer- 
tain rejjutation which caused many respectable and distin- 
guished persons to visit him. Still, however, he was regarded 
almost with contempt by those who frequented his entertain- 
ments, which were always sumptuous, nnd upon a most exten- 
r-ive scale. Rosalie threw a domino over her gracefully formed 
figure, and entered the carriage with Sir Gilbert, which was to 
convey them to the palazzo. They were crossing the high-road 
into a declivity, at the termination of which the pnlazzo Maz- 
ziano was situated, when Kosalie suddenly started in the car- 
riage, nnd catching hold of her father's arm, held it with 
evident fcj'rr.nd trembling. 

" What is the matter, Rosalie .'" inquired Sir Gilbert. 

" Did you not see that horrid face ?" inquired Rosalie. 

" What face ?" 

" That strange woman's face that looked in at the carriage 
windows ?" 

" I saw no face," observed the baronet. 

" Her eyes still glare upon me," exclaimed his daughter. 
*' Do let the carriage be stopped, and see what it means." 

Sir Gilbert smilingly obeyed his daughter's request, and the 
carriage having been stopped, he alijrhted and looked around, 



but there was no one to be seen ; the sounds of the music in the 
halls of Mazziano fell upon their ears, mingled with the soft 
low sighing of the wind through the leafy branches of the trees 
that hedged the declivity down which the carriage was pro- 
ceeding, when it was stopped at the request of Rosalie. The 
postilions were asked what it was that had recently passed the 
carriage, but the reply was that no one had passed it, indeed 
that the driver had not seen a human being for the last mile. 

" 1 am sure I saw a horrid facel" exclaimed Rosalie. "A 
horrid woman's face ! Her dark eyes still glare upon me." 

Sir Gilbert, who could not entertain any supernatural ideas, 
smiled at his daughter's terror, and ascribed it to the circum- 
stance of the carriage having proceeded from the high-road, 
enlightened by the broad rays of the silver moon into a black 
avenue, but partially illumined by the moon's rays piercing 
through the thick foliage, thus making a thousand fantastic 
figures upon the ground. He explained this to Rosalie, and 
before they reacbed the palazzo, he had persuaded her that this 
■was all that she could have seen, and restored her again to 
that happy serenity, which had been disturbed in the course of 
their progress. 

They joined the groupe of revellers in the beautiful gardens 
of Count Mazziano, and in the exquisite music, the brilliancy 
of the illuminations, and the mazes of the valse, Rosalie soon 
forgot the horrid face which she fancied she had seen at the 
carriage window. Tired with dancing, and released by her 
partner, Rosalie had wandered alone to a distant part of the 
gardens, where a rustic bridge was thrown across a small 
rivulet, which passing over piles of pebbles, made a kind of 
melancholy music, according well with the still solemnity of 
the scene, above which the unclouded moon shone with ex- 
treme brightness. Upon a seat by this bridge, Rosalie sat 
down, and gazed upon the illuminated gardens beyond, while 
the distant sounds of the music, and the hum of many voices 
fell upon her ear. It was one of those moments of intense, 
delicious extasy, when all of human enjoyment seems at our 
feet, and we feel superior to them ; when casting away all 
earthly feelings and associations as things scarcely worth heed- 
ing or caring for, the soul soars up to heaven's gate, longing 
for association with the pure and holy. There are such 
thoughts — there are such aspirations — and they are inspired 
and excited in moments and situations like to this, when we 
feel how very inadequate is human enjoyment to the wishes of 
the soul, which pants^ for the " music which is divine," and the 
love that is pure and deathless, — the words of everlasting love, 
in which there is no deceit, the communion with the spirits of 
truth, and gentleness, and beauty ; freed from that cause with 
which they are too often found associated upon earth, and are 
only to be enjoyed in their fullness of excellence in the death- 
less land of bliss. 

Similar were the thoughts of Rosalie, as she sat upon that 
rustic bridge, gazing up into the clear unclouded sky, when 
suddenly a masked figure in a white domino crossed the bridge 
from an opposite direction. Rosalie, therefore, did not perceive 
the figure until it was passing. She started with the sudden- 
ness of the surprise, and immediately resumed her mask ; but 
the figure turning round, paused, and approaching Rosalie, 
threw the white cloak aside, and Rosalie perceived that it was 
a female who had assumed the character of a gypsey, and 
whom she had frequently noticed in the course of the evening 
supporting the assumed character, by "reading the stars" for 
several persons in the gardens. 

" This is just the place," said the stranger, approaching 

Rosalie, " for the exercise of my vocation. Lady, shall 1 tell 
you your destiny ?" 

" You cannot tell me more than I know already," was 
Rosalie's reply. 

" Will you put my knowledge to the test, lady ? Come, 
there is no one that can overhear us, if it should be some secret 
love tale which the lines upon your hand acquaint me with." 

Rosalie was inclined to humour the gypsey, and holding forth 
her hand, exclaimed, " Well, then, let me have proof of your 

" 'Tis a fair hand," said the stranger, " but there have been 
fairer than this where there have been false hearts." 

" You do not mean to say that I have a false heart," ex- 
claimed Rosalie, withdrawing her hand pettishly. 

" Lady, look up," said the gypsey, " the moon is now un- 
clouded, and 'tis beautiful ; there is a joy in looking at it in its 
purity and glory ; but soon a cloud — dark storm clouds may 
come across it, and in the place of that bright moon, we may 
have only gloom and tears." 

There was something in the mournful tones of the gypsey, as 
she spoke, that rivetted the attention of Rosalie, and she said, 

" Do you think that my life will end in gloom and tears .>" 

" Not so, lady," said the gypsey, quickly, " for there are 
two lines upon this hand, which meeting at one point, separate 
quickly ; the one terminates in happintss, the other in despair." 

" Then my life will be exactly accoidiug to the line I follow ?" 

" You're guess is right. Ah! A bride too— wealth — title 
— honours. 'Tis a fine hand — ^jewels and gold ; priceless gems 
and — but where's the heart ? I look in vain for that. Lady ! 
Thy heart is not here." 

"What mean you?" exclaimed Rosalie, startled by the 
pointed remark of the gypsey, which, it may be, brought 
strange things to her recollection, " my heart not here? — Do 
you suppose I carry my heart on my hand ?" 

" No : but the hand should go with the heart ; and sure 
there is no heart in Florence that will match this hand." 

" You talk in riddles," said Rosalie, " do be so good as to 
explain what it is you mean, or it is not much the wiser I shall 
be for our grave conference." 

" I will tell thee thy fate, then," said the gypsey, sternly 
throwing her white cloak around her, and preparing to depart. 
" The lamp that went out in a far away land, must not be re- 
lighted here ; the lamb that forsook its kind to mate and play 
with lions, repented only of its error when preparations were 
on foot for its slaughter for the lion's food. Lions have 
destroyed fairer lambs than thou." 

With these words the gypsey stalked away, and was soon 
hidden from the sight of Rosalie by tlie intervening clusters tf 
trees in the garden. 

Strange things had been spoken to Rosalie by the wh'Ae 
domino, and their meaning was not altogether incomprehen- 
sible ; and Rosalie remained transfixed to her seat upon the 
bridge, gazing abstractedly at the spot where she had last seen 
the gypsey. At length she recovered her composure, and it then 
occurring to her that the masked gypsey might be some one who 
knew her whole history, and who had hit upon this method of 
creating a little pleasantry at her expense, she resolved to treat 
the matter as an idle jest, and forthwith left the bridge and 
rejoined the guests in the gardens. 

On that night Rosalie was first introduced to the Marquis de 
Rosalba, a young Florentine nobleman, who had succeeded to 
his parent's estates at a very early age, and was one of the 
most distinguished ornaments of the city ; he was the favourite 



of all tlir fair, nnJ his conqurtts over woman^s heart, made 
him thr fiivy (if all the yoiint; Florentine aristoeracy. He was 
introiluceil to Ilnsulie ami her father, hy the noble owner of the 
paluzzo ; and the tiarkly-fritijred, prophet-eyes of the English 
hl-auty, !ioon made an impression on the Florentine's heart, 
whilst her wit and humour made her vietory secure. Before 
the eoinpany broke np, Kosiilie held the Marquis) iu love's 
chains ; and, it must be added, that he bad been scarcely less 
s\icres-fnl himself with Kosalie. 

The Miirqnis attache J himself to Rosalie, and took every 
opportunity of manifesting; the strenpth of her affection ; the 
most costly presents were made her ; the resources of art were 
exhausted to procure fresh novelties for the boudoir ; the lover 
was constantly near her, and constantly breathing vows of 
love into her ear ; whilst the increased briiliuncy of her eyes 
indicated tiie effect which those words and vows had upon her 
heart. At length the Mi>rquis proposed marriage in a fornml 
letter to Sir (»ill)ert, whose ambition being gratiticd by the 
prospect of an alliance with so wealthy a nobleman, he imme- 
diately laid the letter before Rosalie, and left her to decide as 
she pleaded ; but, nevertheless, intimating that although he 
would never force her to marry against her inclinations, this 
was a proposal, the acceptance of which would afford him much 

In this case, the parent's wishes corresponded with the 
daughter's. Rosalie Vavasour possessed all her father's ambi- 
tion ; she had high inspirations ; she longed to be exalted in 
society, and to have unbounded wealth at her command. She 
had pictured worlds of happiness which wealth might procure' 
and all her fairy dreams seemed to be now on the eve of reali- 
zation. She read the Marquis's proposition over and over 
again, and every time with increased delight ; and was thus 
engngeil when a domestic announced that a female, unattended, 
wished to speak with her. She would disclose the nature of 
her business only to Miss Vavasour. 

Rosalie, vexed by the interruption, sullenly rose from the 
damask couch, upon which shi; had been reclining, and pro- 
ceeded into an anti-room, where the female was waiting. 
Imagine her aNtouishment, to perceive the masked figure in the 
white domino that had accosted her in the gardens of the 
palazzo Mazziano. She started when her eyes fell upon the 
niakked figure before her, which stood motionless and statue- 
like for some sic(uids ; and then in the same melancholy tone 
in which the predictions had been delivered in the gardens of 
Count Mazziano, the gypsey exclaimed: — 

" Ihe lamp that went out in auothcr laud, must not be re- 
lighteil here." 

Rosalie's heart failed her; she gazed for a moment in speech- 
less wonder upon the mysterious being before her ; but at 
length gathering courage, and calling up the resemblance of a 
smile to her cheek, she saiil, " To what circumstance am I 
indebted for the honour of this visit from the gypsey of Maz- 
ziano ; and why does she still appear in that character?" 

The gypsey replied, " Von know the cause of my visit. I 
sci- it in your eyc5. I rend your knowledge in your convulsive 
clutching of that folded serpent in your hand " 

" .Serpent !" cried Rosalie, looking upon her hand in which 
»hc held the Marquis's letter. 

" The serpent !" re-echoed the gypsey ; " how beautiful ! how 
beautiful, how fair the reptile seems ! 'Tis clasped to the 
heart of )>cauty ;— tis loved !— it is adored I But, beware ! 
Jk-ware I" 

" Beware of what ."" inquired Rosalie, in tremuhms accents. 

" Of thine own heart's treachery !" 

" Mine 1" 

" Yes, lady ; 'twas my word. The gates of despair are of 
fine gold, diamond-studded ; and we go up to them rejoicing ; 
and the serpent that lures us there, seems very fair ; we enter, 
the gates are closed against us, and there is no returning. Wilt 
thou enter there "'" 

" This is trilling," said Rosalie, " I cannot listen to this 
folly any longer." And she was proceeding tint of the room. 

" One moment stay," said the gyps«y, " Remember, ere 
thou repliest to that pajicr in thine hand, of the (lays that are 
past. Ere thou lay'st thine head upon thy pillow, bethink 
thee of past hours ; then act as thy conscience dictates, and 
the serpent may be crushed. Remember and beware ?" 

The gypsey waited for no reply, hut immediately qiiitlc<l the 
room, and presently Rosalie beard the hall-door closed. She 
rung the bell violently, and summoned her father ; but when 
the old baronet entered the room, Rosalie rushed towards 
him, and fainted in his arms. Sir Gilbert was unable to 
understand the cause of her emotions ; but having learnt that 
a strange female had been conversing with her, he ordertd his 
domestics instantly to go in seiirch of her, but vain were all 
their enquiries ; the gypsey was no where to be found. 

When she recovered, Rosalie informed her father of the par- 
ticulars of her two interviews with the mysterious female in the 
white domino ; and Sir Gilbert, immediately inferring that his 
daughter was sought to be made the victim of some ot those 
wandering adventurers who practise upon female credulity, ex- 
plained to Rosalie what he thimgbt of the gypsey, and she 
readily gave credence to her father's representations, and orders 
were given to the servants that if the strange woman should 
come again, she should be driven from the door. 

A month passed away, and nothing more was heard of the 
gypsey ; Rosalie had accepted the offer of the Marquis di 
Rosalba, and preparations wi re on foot for the solemnizutiiin 
of their nuptials. The we ding-day eatne, and the sounds of 
rejoicing were heard in the house of Sir Gilbert Vavasour, 
whose daughter Rosalie seemed to be full of hapi>iness. The 
Marquis came to lead her to the altar, and the wed.ling pro- 
cession was formed. On entering the porch of the sacred edifice, 
where the marriage-rites were to be performed, Rosalie gently 
raised her eyes from the ground, and the first object upon whom 
they fell was the mysterious gypsey, who humbly curtsied to 
her as sh.e passed. 

Rosalie trembled violently, and leant for support upon the 
arm of her father, who was by the side of her. He marked her 
emotion, but ascribing it to the peculiarity of her situation, 
offered no observation . and they proceeded to the altar. 

The marriage ceremony was lerformed, and Rosalie Vava- 
sour became the Marchioness di Rosalba. 

The party turned from the altar ; the Maripiis gazing enrnp- 
turedly upon the beauties of his young bride, and Sir Gilbert 
regarding his raptures witli satisfaction and delight ; the spec- 
tators who had crowded the church to witness the nuptials 
made way for the bridal party, whose progress, however, was 
snudcnly arrested by the mysterious exclamation, so well known 
to one of the party : — 

"Thelampthat wentout in faraway land, is notrelightedhore!'' 

llie whole party heard the words, but no one could tell 
whence they came. Rosalie upraised her head, and ga^ed 
wildly round ; but in vain her eyes sought the well-known 
figure of the gypsey ; she uttered a piercing shrivk, and was 
curried out of the church in a fainting state. 



She had passed to tlie " golden gates," and entered the 
region of despair. The prediction of the gypsey was ful- 

The first days of the wedded life ef Rosalie were happy ; but 
the Maiquis was ficlcle as the wind — changeable in kis affec- 
tions, vain, cold-hearted, j-ealous, and revengeful. We have 
already said that he was admired by all the beauties of Italy, 
«nd he could not make up his mind to attach himself only to 
one. Soon, therefore, Rosalie was neglected. But having 
wealth at her commaud, and being able to gratify her ambition, 
the neglect of the Marquis did not affect her much. She had 
married for wealth and a title, and she had these. True it is, 
as the poet sings, 

" The love that seeks a home 

Where wealth or splendour shines, 

Is like the gloomy gnome 

That dwells in dark gold mines." 

Rosalie was unhappy, slie had all that wealth could com- 
mand, but there was a dull monotony in the gratifications that 
wealtb could procure, which she soon grew tired of. And then 
she begun to perceive the bad traits in her husband's character. 
His jealousy was excited if she but spoke with kiadness of any 
of their friends ; and Rosalie being quick and i*-ritable, their 
home was a scene of endless disquiet. 

And soon did Rosalie become aware of the truth of what the 
gypsey had said. " The lamp that went out in a far away 
land, would not be relighted here." Before she left England 
her heart had been given to the younger son of a nobleman of 
«onsiderable influence, influence which would enable him to 
provide for his children in a way becoming of his rank. Edgar 
Hartington, had become an attache of a foreign embassy, and 
with a prospect of filling a high diplomatic situation. He and 
Rosalie were lovers, until th« ambitious girl fancied that his 
expectations were not sufficient for the gratification of her 
vanity, and she grew cold and distant ; and their connection 
eventually was broken by the departure of Rosalie with her 
father for Italy. 

Edgar Hartington loved Rosalie to idolatry ; his love was 
pure and disinterested ; but when he perceived the altered 
manner of Rosalie, and was able to discover the cause, well 
knowing that notwithstanding his expectations, his present 
means were resti'icted, he did not blame nor chide her ; he 
loved her too well. He believed that he was unworthy of her 
— (so humble is true love) — and resigned her without a word, 
although his heart was breaking. 

And now did Rosalie feel the pangs of despised love ; now 
was she able to understand the sufferings of Edgar Hartington, 
to whom her thoughts reverted ; and now did she become 
aware of the extent and character of her ingratitude. In the 
full tide of gaiety, upon which she had been floating, all recol- 
lection other humble lover had been lost ; but now his virtues, 
and gentleness, and ti-uth, all came upon her memory, and con- 
trasting him who might have been her husband, with him 
whom she had made her husband, her soul became distracted 
with grief and despair. 

The Marquess was cruel in his behaviour. His jealous fears 
confined Rosalie to her house ; he would not suffer h^r to go 
out with company, nor to receive company at home. She sub- 
mitted ; her proud spirit was broken, and she submitted without 
a murmur. 

One day he informed her that an English nobleman had 
arrived in Florence on his way to his own country, biiuging 

letters of introdliction to him, and that in consequence he 
should be compelled to invite him to his house. He mentioned 
the name of Lord Hartington. 

" Lord Hartington !" exclaimed Rosalie. 

" Yes," was the reply ; " he has but lately succeeded to the 
title, his father having died." 

Rosalie believed that it was the brother of Edgar that she 
would have to receive ; but judge her confusion when in the 
person of Lord Hartington, she beheld Edgar himself. His 
two brothers had died of a fever shortly after Rosalie had 
quitted England, and by his father's death he had himself be- 
come Lord Hartington. The surprise at this meeting was 
mutual. Rosalie almost overpowered with grief and dismay 
strove to hide her emotion ; Edgar was respectful but formal. 
There was that in their manner, however, which excited the 
suspicion of the Marquis, and by his command, his wife retired 
to her apartments. 

One day he heard the loveliness of Rosalie spoken of in terms 
of eulogy by a young and spirited noblemen. Count Florini, 
whom he challenged upon the spot ; the Count, a spirited man, 
accepted the challenge ; they lought, and Rosalba fell, the vic- 
tim of his own jealousy. And Rosalie again was free. 

The Marquis had a splendid funeral, and there was a show 
of grief in what had been his home ; but Rosalie felt that death 
had freed her from the persecution of a tyrant, whose cruelties 
she had endured for three years, but which had seemed to her 
twenty. And on the night when Rosalba was borne to the 
resting place of his ancestors, and Rosalie was sitting abstracted, 
by the open casement overlooking the lawn, a shadowy 
figure suddenly flitted past her, and the well remembered words 
fell upon her ear — " llie lamp that went out in a far away land 
mai/ again be relighted there." 

And when the business of the estates was settled, Rosalie 
returned to her native laud. And when the period of mourning 
had expired, need it be added that the lamp of love tvas re- 
lighted, and that Rosalie became the sole partner and sole part 
of all the joys of Edgar Hartington. 


I feign would take thee for my bride. 

Fair widow, could I prove. 
That you have ready cash beside — 

A heart inclined to love. 

I fain would know if that fair child. 

Is in a deep decline ; 
And how the settlements were made, 

Before I make you mine. 

I boast not wealth or pedigree. 

My expectations few ; 
But will the jointure you possess, 

Be enough for <v'o. 

Then, widow, if you prize a heart 

That brooks not much delay ; 
You will a second time submit 

To honour and obey. 

Countess of Wootten 




" Tbc woud, the streutn, the coasciuiu mouiitain know* 
That it is tired with gathering, one by one, 
The gluriou-) tlowcrs of my rrjoiciiig morn : 
O, they were transient — nipt as soon as born I 
Enough ! The uiibchieTii dune 1" — From the Spanish. 

I am a very mi-ierablc uau. I deem it necessary to state 
this at the very eoiumcncemcnt of the history of my life, that 
my readers may not be led away by any romantic notion, and 
cipiiose for u moment that the situations in which it has been 
my misfortune to be placed, were capable of inspiring happinetis, 
or any feeling, indeed, short of absolute misery. 1 say that 1 
an a very miserable man ; and let no one who is not similarly 
circumstanced to myself, presume to deny it. 

I am H bachelor ; scven-aud-thirty years[of age. I was never 
reckoned beautiful ; not even in my cliildhood. I hud not blue 
eyes, neither hud I a luxuriant crop of golden curls ; in fact, the 
people did say that 1 was absolutely uyli/ : and as I grew up to 
man's estate, the unmistakeable expression of the female faces 
I encountered, assured me that I had gained nothing in personal 
appearance by increase of years. I am the identical gentleman, 
one of whose features excited so strongly the admiration of a 
young lady at the dinner table of a distinguished Countess, and 
made so lively an impression on her mind, that, having occasion 
to request that I would supply her plate with a potato, very 
politely said " Will you have the goodness, sir, to favour me 
with — a nose '.'' 

Notwithstanding my unfortunate personal appearance, my 
heart was very susceptible. I could fall in love. I could not 
be insensible to the fascinations of lovely woman ! But, where- I 
ever I offered my addresses, I was rejected. I proposed over 
and over again ; numerous times did I "break the ice,'' and 
" pop the question," at as many different shrines, but, alas — 
" The ladies they all passed me by 

With a cold, dull look, and scornful eye." 

Vain were my endeavours to enter the gates of hymcnealhap- 
pineiis. Still I wooed on ; I hoped and persevered. Ai;uin,and 
aguin, did 1 try my fortune in the mutrimonial way. But still 
I was always defeated. Woman! lovely woman ; seemed to be 
determined to baffle all my endeavours to gain a wife : all 
neemed to be leagued against me. I became the jest, the ' 
ridirule of my female nciiuaintancc, and was as well known at 
the West Knd by the soubriquet of the " little bachelor," as St. 
James's Palace, Almack's, or Crockford's Club. My passion ^ 
was in no instance requited. I grew in manhood. At twenty | 
1 was not partieulurly grieved l)y my defeats ; but at thirty my 
hair beiraii ti» full off, and I grew desperate. 1 put an adver- I 
tisement in the newspaper, " .\ gentleman blessed with affluence 
an I a happy docile disposition, is desirous of meeting with a 
lady of conjugal temper and habits, &c.'' 

My advertisement was answered. A lady, beautiful and 
accomplished, kind, generous, and gifted with every excellence 
of heud and heart, responded to my appeal. I was in eestacies. 
The moment of my happiness so long delayed was approaching — 
I »aw the pinnacle of bliss within my reach, and my brain 
whirled with its dream of delight. I he weilding day was fixed ; 
it was to be a strictly private wedding ; the licence was bought, 
and so was the ring. The church bells, which I had ordered to 
be set going, were banging away at a merry rate ; the coach 
wa^« at the door. I led the blushing Arabella down the stairs. 
I trod as u|K)n air ! Wc were at tht coach door, the foot of 

my beloved was upon tlie vtep, when, to, and behold ! the was 
Duatched from my heart and arms, by two of the black-looking 
myrmidons of Doe and Rue '. — The lady was an intpostor '. 

Imagine my confusion — my despair — to have tlve idol of my 
affections, whom 1 had sought for, for so many years, ardently, 
energetically, strenuously — snatched from me at the very 
moment when I stood upon the line that separates the wretched 
bachelor from the happy Benedict 1 I afterwards found cause 
to rejoice, however, for the lady was over head and ears in 
debt, which circumstance had come to the knowledge of one of 
those good-natured relations who are always so much interested 
in an old bachelor's welfare, who procured her arrest. 

'Twus fortunate that they did so. 

My misfortunes made me an enemy to the whole sex. For 
the first six months after this affair my indignation found vent 
in satires and lampoons, which I gave anonymously to the 
public prints, and I had the satisfaction of stinging some of 
those who had been so ungenerous to me. At length I fell in 
with a set of men-y, graceless fellows, devoted to a state of 
celibacy. I railed at matrimony, and laughed at married people, 
made songs about the happiness of single life, frequented the 
clubs, where my tirades against wedlock soon made me the 
observed of all observers. My enthusiasm excited great ad- 
miration, and I became as celebrated for my anti-matrimonial 
prejudices, as I had been for my deficiency of personal beauty. 

1 was happy then. I had gained notoriety. The world 
loves singularity, and I had soon the pleasure of seeing many 
bright-eyed maidens, who had before looked scornfully upon 
me, and had cut rae dead whenever I approached, now courting 
my acquaintance, eager to converse with me, and draw out of 
me some thundering denunciations against married men. I do 
in my conscience believe that if I had wished to have married 
then, I might have had a choice of twenty. But I was hostile 
to marriage ; I had worked myself up into a decided antipathy 
to married people, and the married state. 

But now, imagine me spiked upon my own prejudices ! Imagine 
a reaction ! Imagine the crusty, crabbed, cynical, censorious 
bachelor, again in love 1 " Sighing like a furnace !" Sitting 
up late at night, writing sonnets to " my lady's eyebrows !" 
I, who had made epigrams upon married men ; lampooned my 
Benedick acquaintances; made myself notorious as an inveterate 
bachelor — caught — fast bound in the fascinations of one of the 
gentle sex ; captivated, subdued, at the very time when I was 
engaged in writing a satirical work against matrimony, the first 
illustration of which was myself ! 

I had remained elosettcd for ten days. I had written three 
chapters, full of satire, wit, and pleasantry ; so biting, so 
piquant, so lively ; when I consented to dine with my friend 

G , as steady a bachelor as myself. I went to dine with 

him, alone, as I thought. I had no idea that he had a sister I 
I say, I went to dine with my friend. And there, alas ! wa« 
Sophia ! 

I felt extremely uneasy when my eyes first fell upon her orbs 
of pure ethereal blue. She smiled so winningly. There was 
such innocence in her looks ; such pure good nature in her 
beaming countenance ; such — such — in fact, I was deeply in 
love, long before I was aware of it. 

My friend G said, at a very early hour, that he would 

let me off, as he knew I devoted my evenings to my satirical 
work. I took this to be particularly uncivil. I had no wish to 

retire. G spoke of the merits of my three chapters to his 

lovely sister. I almost hated him for doing it. Sophia said 
little, but she looked volumes. She seemed to pity my errors ; 



and pity from s\»ch an angelic person moved my beart to ten- 
derness. In short, I confessed that I had become tired and 
displeased with my subject ; and had committed my manuscript 
to the flames 1 

" Is it possible ?" exclaimed G , throwing himself back 

into his chair, with an expression of wonder and amazement. 

" It is true," I mildly observed, endeavouring to look uncon- 
cerned and indifferent. But Sophia encouraged me by expressing, 
in her own peculiarly soft and musical tones, her pleasure to 
find that I was so ready to acknowledge an error, and to atone 
for it. 

What I talked of afterwards, I know not, but when I drove 
home, my cab seemed to float in the air. My brain was pos- 
sessed with a thousand delightful images ; my heart was fall of 
rapture ; I dined with G again the next day. 

I married Sophia ! I am a happy bridegroom. I cannot 
describe the goodness of my wife, and the happiness of my 

I have discovered that our meeting was not so accidental as 

I had supposed, for that my friend G , who had been as 

stout an opponent of matrimony as myself, had himself been 
caught by the bright eyes of an interesting young lady, and was 
very desirous of marrying her ; so, without hinting tlie matter 
to Sophia, he brought about our meeting, and soon had the 
gratification to find that I was as anxious to shake off my old 

bachelorism as himself. Our meeting was a trick of G 's 

to keep him in countenance; and it succeeded — happily suc- 
ceeded, I say. The two weddings took place on the same day, 
and we have no reason to expect that we, either of us, shall 
regret the day when we proceeded to the hymeneal altar ! 




Take back your love ; I prize it not, — 

A worthless gift return ; 
The flame that bends with ev'ry wind. 

Can never steady burn. 

The heart that yields to ev'ry breath, 

Feels flattered with a smile, 
Must pine for change ; and each bright eye 

Arrests it for a while. 

I blame you not, for stronger minds 

Have acted thus before ; 
Then take your gift, and pass it on 

To those who prize it more. 

Countess of Wootten. 

The Riddle of the Year. — There is a father with twice 
six sons ; these sons have thirty daughters a-piece, partly 
coloured, having one cheek white and the other black, who 
never see each other's face, nor live above twenty-four hours. 
Where are the best-bred people of a country found ? — At the 
manoi- house. 


If any blushes mantle on Miss Angelina's face. 
It can only be the rouge that is blushing for its place ; 
For beauty is but skin-deep, at least so says the sonnet, 
But Angelina's charms are deeper by a coat of paint ui'on it. 

The wedding day arrived, and with it all those pains and 
pleasantries which are inseparable from wedding days ; the 
delicate confusion of the fair girl who was about to become a 
wife, the tears in the eyes of her good parents, and the hearty 
prayers of her friends, served to make up a scene in the highest 
degree imposing. The bridegroom was looking more than 
usually animated ; there was poetry in his eyes if not on his 
lips, and though he did not sing, he seemed to say. 
The blush is on thy cheek, and thy hand is trembling still, 
Like a blossom to the breeze, and I feel thy bosom thrill ; 
The tear is in thine eye, and a sigh bursts from thy breast, 
O, tell me, dearest, truly, what 'tis disturbs thy rest. 
Is parting from thy mother a source of grief to thee. 
Cast all thy fears away, my love, and cling through life to me ; 
For I will vow to cherish thee, beneath the holy fane, 
In health and pleasure's happy hours, and in the time of pain. 
And the bells are ringing for us love, sojoyously and gay. 
To greet with many a merry chime, thee on thy wedding day ; 
And thy sister with a laughing eye has whispered a farewell. 
Then wherefore art thou sad, my love, the hidden secret tell. 

The sadness of the fair girl is the excess of her happiness, 
she turned a little pale, and then a little flushed, and at last 
had just the right quantity of bright, becoming colour, and 
almost shed a tear, but not quite, for a smile came instead and 
chased it away. The bridegroom was warned not to forget 
th3 ring, and all were assembled round the altar : ' I will,' 
was uttered in a clear, low voice, and the new name written — 
and Sophy G. was Sophy G. no more. And she turned her 
bright face to be looked on, and loved, and admired, by the 
crowd of relations and friends surrounding her; and they 
thought that Sophy was still dearer and prettier than ever she 
had been — and then the carriages were entered, and the house 
was reached. Sophy walked into her father's honse — her 
childhood's home — her home no longer — and the bridal dress 
was changed, and the travelling dress took its place, and all 
crowded round her — the father, the mother, the sister, the 
brothers — all crowded round her to say good-bye — to look and 
look on that dear face once more — to feel that her fate was 
sealed — to pray that it might be a happy one — to think that 
she was going away — away from them — away from her home 
— away with a stranger I and tears and smiles were mingled, 
and fond looks, and long embraces — and a father's mingled 
tear of joy and sorrow was on her cheek ; and the sister's tear, 
that vainly tried to be a smile, and the mother's sobs : and 
Sophy left her father's house — left it with the bright beam of 
joy and hope upon her brow ; and in another moment-, the 
carriage-door was closed, the last good-bye uttered — and Sophy 
was gone. Oh ! how melancholy ! how lonely does the house 
appear, where but a moment before all has been interest and 
hurry! Who has not experienced the deserted sensation, whea 
those whom we have been accustomed to see are gone — when the 
agitation, the interest of parting is over ? — the forlorn, empty 
look of the room— the stillness - the work-box, the drawing- 
materials, the music, all gone ; or perhaps one single thing 
left to remind us how all was — a flower, perhaps, that had been 
gathered and cast aside — the cover of a letter which had beea 
scribbled over in the forgetfulness of the happy conversation ! 
As the carriage drove off, Sophy was seen to rest her head 
upon her husband's arm. She was no doubt in tears. Anl 
what was his consolation ? What were his words of happiness ? 



Afrnin thy tmilc, love, sliall return, at the sunbeam after rain, 
Keaiiu forth iifrcsh more brilliantly Hpon the dewy plain ; 
Thou creeprst like a tiinlil dove to nestle on mv breast, 
And there repose, my only love, both blessiiip me and t)le«t : 
Hilieve me, I will never prove a source of grief to thee ; 
<'u>t all thy fear nwiiy, dear love, and cling through life to me ; 
No danger can lurk near thee whilst I am by thy side. 
Thy husband, father, brother, guardiun, friend, and guide. 

(Ui/ a Young Philusophrr.) 

* What is Wisdom ?" Sages sny 

Purest joy with her is found ; 
Follow her — your hair is grey, 
Wrinkles on yo«r face abound ! 

* What is Wealth ?" th«t dreadful creature, 

Let her, let her be alone ! 
She will turn each glorious feature 
Of thy young heart into stone 1 

" What is Pleasure ?" 'tis a dream. 
Which flicH at Reason's early light ! 

'Tis a bright and treach'rous gleam, 
Scarcely seen, so swift its flight ! 

" What is Hope ?" the shipwreck'd sailor 
Hopes to reach the shore again ; 

Hope w-ill fail— 'tis then assailer, 
Adding but to increase pain ! 

" What is Wit?" some strong sensation, 
Bringing thoughts into your view ; 

Tliat in ruddiest Health's probation, 
Oft the springs of mind renew ! 

" What is Friendship?" 'tis a meteor 
Glowing in the Northern skies ; 

Quick and brief we scan its feature, 
Ne'er forgotten — but it dies ! 

" What is Love ?" let those reply 
Who in earliest life have proved. 

The sweet and thrilling ecstiicy. 
Of loving and of being loved ! 

'Tis a Bliss and Joy supreme, 

niooming under Reason's shade. 

That is not like these a dream. 
Hut like sunlight doth not fade ! 

hA t, . // K » n,scovF.Rv._A lady, who afTected to 

travrd h/""; Tu" ""' '" """'''y ^•^•^«^"'«^ly ipn<>rant, be- 

trayed the fact ,n rather an amusing manner. Seeing a young 

S :;"",;"' "^'"r*';" »>- fl<-er-garden. shf inquired 
«hat pi„,„^ he was for his new bo.der? '• Why polv- 
nnfhus and auricula ulhrnalrl,,.-—" ' Is it a 
pretty flower ? Jjo fficc me Hpla.,1 like a dear boy- -" 


Across the waves — away, and far, 

My spirit turns to thee ; 
1 love thee as men love a star. 
The brightest where a thousand arc, 

Sadly auJ silently." 

T. K. Hervey. 

Many, very many are they, who just entering into life, look 
up to individuals in circles above them with envy, and endea- 
vour to become as great and influential, but whom fate's iron 
hand throws back and hinders from the consummation of their 
hearts desires. There is a great diflfcrence in the opinions and 
the desires of the young, even of those wl>o aspire to greatness, 
wherein they have fixed their happiness ; for ideas of happiness 
are generally placed in one object, which is pursued often 
through life, and yet never attained. Money is the happiness 
and object of some — popularity of others — rank of a third class 
— love of a fourth. Hut the classes are numerous. It was my 
lot to become enamoured of one who was far above me mi 
wealth and station. I was the son of a country curate, and aJl 
that he could bestow upon me was a good education, and the 
knowledge of virtue. It was my endeavour to emulate my 
father's virtues, and to become like him the beloved parent of a 
little flock of human beings, who looked up to him for consola- 
tion and support in all tlicir troubles and sufferings, and made 
him the participator of their happiness. I ap( lied myself to 
my studies, and at three-and-twenty I obtained the curacy 

of ; there I resided for two years, and the objects I so 

much desired were effected ; I was respected and beloved ; the 
old regarded me as a pious and exemplary son ; the young as a 
brother and guardian. I was then most happy. 

It hajjpened that the Earl of Lynterton, who was upon a 
visit to a noble family in my parish, came to the church one 
Sunday, and brought with him hig only daughter, the Lady 
Isabel. Till then I had never looked upon woman's loveliness 
otherwise than as a brother looks upon the perfections of a 
virtuous sister; but the surpassing beauty of the Lady Isabel, 
the purity and innocence that sat upon her brow, the piety of 
her fair countenance, the grace and symmetry of her form, all 
conspired to awaken in my heart that latent passion which I 
had hoped would have slumbered for ever. My discourse on 
that particular day was upon the bliss which all created beings 
may hope to enjoy on earth, who strive to approach the 
excellence of the spirits of the just. I had written it some 
days previously, but as I proceeded, the ideas seemed to have 
been newly inspired, for they expressed the rapture which I 
felt at that moment ; happy would have been my lot if it had 
been cast with that of the peerless lady whose eyes I saw were 
rivetted upon my countenance, indicative of the attention which 
she paid to, and the interest she took in my discourse. 

The service ended, an(' the lady and her noble father left the 
church ; my eyes followed them ; the Lady Isabel glanced 
around w hen her foot was upon the threshold ; it may have 
been to look again at the edifice, but my vanity supposed that 
the preacher had been the object of that last glance. In another 
moment she was gone. 

Then did I feel for the first time in my life, the heart's 
loneliness. The evening service was hurried carelessly on. 
1 looked around, but the object of my search was absent ; the 
place which she had occupied was vacant ; 1 read the words 
bclore me, but my imagination was absent from my subject. 




For the first time in my life I forgot the duties of the minister, 
and became a slave to the passions of man. 

I soon learned that the Lady Isabel and her father had gone 
to London, and the covmtry then became distasteful to me. I 
felt confined, as in a prison, in my little peaceful village. I 
neglected my duties. There were complaints made, and I 
resigned the curacy. 

Tne world was now before me, I was friendless and with 
very little money ; and yet T resolved to proceed to London, 
and take my chance with the rest, believing that any fare 
would be preferable in the vicinity of the house of the Lady 
Isabel, to competence in a country curacy. I came to London, 
and mixed with the busy, cold, and heartless throng which 
compose the population of the capital. I tried various ways to 
obtain the means of subsistence, but in vain ; and also endea- 
voured to gain another sight of the object of my ill-starred 
affections. I haunted the vicinity of her abode. I fiequented 
the streets at the fashionable part of the town, when parties 
were given, and was constantly at the doors of Almack's, near 
St. James's Square, but I saw no Lady Isabel. There were 
many beautiful women passed me by, but none like the Lady 

I was reduced to my last shilling, when I fortunately met 
with a college acquaintance, who on being made acquainted 
with my necessities, offered to employ me to contribute some 
articles to a literary periodical, with which he was connected, 
I caught at the offer, although the remuneration was so small 
that it would barely procure me the necessaries of life. Still, 
it would enable me to remain in London, and be near the Lady 

1 one day took up, accidentally, a newspaper in which the 
first passage that met my eyes announced that " The son of a 
French banker is remarked to be very pointed in his attentions 

to the lovely daughter of the Earl of Lyn n, the Lady 

Isabel B , who has for some time past been residing in 


It may be conceived what effect this intelligence had upon 
me. The reason why I had not seen the Lady Isabel was now 
manifest. She had been attracting the attention of admirers 
in Paris, while I was wasting my time in London, subsisting 
upon a beggarly pittance. I immediately threw up my employ- 
ment, and went to Paris, where one of the first persons my eyes 
met was the object of my anxious search. She passed mein 
one of the public promenades, her father was with her, and 
upon the other side was a young man whose attentions indicated 
him to be the lover alluded to in the newspaper paragraph. 
Her arm was linked in his ; she seemed pleased with his atten- 
tions. She did not perceive me. She passed me by. Had she 
seen me, the probability is that she would not have known me. 
She passed me by loveliness was around her as light, and 
joy, and bliss. I was for a moment all happiness. She passed 
me, and all was dark despair. 

I was almost pennyless, and in a strange land. I was 
proceeding to my hotel, when I heard some one mention the 
name " Frascati," and it instantly occurred to me that this 
was the place where fortunes were lost and won in a few hours, 
where he who had entered poor as myself had come out a man 
of excessive wealth. Fortune seemed to me to have brought 
this to my mind, and I determined upon resorting to the 
gaming table, where there was a probability that I might be so 
fortunate as to obtain the means which would enable me to 
become an open suitor for the hand of the Lady Isabel. 

The remainder of the day was spent with an individual who 

I learned was in the habit of frequenting Frascati's, and who 
promised to accompany me there at night. I cannot describe 
in adequate terms the gorgeous appearance of the saloons I 
entered. I had no idea of the character of the place, and was 
astonished by its splendour. Having passed an extensive court- 
yard, and ascended a broad staircase, the door of an ante- 
chamber was thrown open by servants in rich liveries ; our 
hats, canes, and gloves, were taken (tickets being given to 
reclaim them) , and we were ushered with all the etiquette of a 
palace, into a large room brilliant with light, thronged with 
well-dressed men, and rendered still more attractive by the 
elegant toumure of the women. This was the roulette chamber 
— the haunt of small gamblers, and, in fact the room for 
general conversation. We passed on to the adjoining apart- 
ment, and there found the business of the evening conducted 
with more ceremony and resolve. Four croupierg, pale from 
late watching, with lips as cold and expressionless as if cut 
from steel, and'eyes as dead as a statue's, were seated about 
the middle of a large oblong table, which was covered with 
green cloth, bearing certain signs in yellow and red known to 
the initiated ; and on the centre of the table, bright and fresh 
from the mint, lay heaps of gold and silver. The strictest 
silence was ordered while the players " made their game," and 
the very fall of the cards on the soft green cloth was heard. 
Then came the announcement of the winning colour, in a voice 
little above a whisper ; and the next moment the long ratienne 
or rake was hauling in the winnings of the bank, while one of 
the attendants distributed the gains to the fortunate. And this 
was rouge et noir at Frascati's ! 

I found that among the frequenters of this table, none were 
so numerous as the English, who, from coldness or long habit, 
had their faces seamed into an expression of tranquil cupidity — • 
peaceful in gaining, and silent in reverse ; while the Spaniard, 
Frenchman, and Italian, excited by their sanguine temperaments, 
ventured large sums and lost them with deep oaths. All 
classes, all ages, except extreme youth and age were repre- 

On our left was the " dice hall," and beyond that still, 
another room, lighted by one dim lamp with a ground glass 
shade, suspended from the ceiling, and surrounded by low soft 
ottomans. It was a dark and silent place — the nest of the lure 
birds — and there exciting drinks were given ; and many a man 
has left that dark and fearful room, a ruined or a wiser man. 

About midnight the playing at rovge et noir was at its 
extreme. The atmosphere of the rooms had become almost 
tropical— the windows and doors were thrown open — refresh- 
ments were handed round, and the gamesters respired. Again, 
all returned to the cards. And there again, until the first cold 
reproaching streak of light brightened the east, the same fences, 
pale and fiendish, were seen as if moulded by a demon -the 
same seared foreheads — knotted brows — wrinkled cheeks — 
mouths compressed so closely that a mere line was visible, and 
eyes fixed in heart-broken gaze upon the last ftanc as it passed 
into the bank, leaving in exchange but misery and despair ! 

I played throughout the night. I was a winner. My spirits 
rose as 1 beheld the gold rapidly drawn towards me. I was 
already the husband of my idol, in my imagination. When I 
returned to my hotel I spread the heap of money which I had 
gained before me, and gazed upon it with astonishment. I had 
never before seen so much gold in one heap, and this was 
mine ! 

I returned to the table on the nest night ; I was again suc- 
cessful. 1 heard admiring voices floating round me, praising 


Tin: woKJ.i) or fasiiiox. 

my <kill, anil wonilcriiiK at my (rood furtuiic. I w^g full of 
hnppiiii'si, my sriiscsi reeled, 1 w'a« near niuduess. On tny 
rrturn home another golden heap wu^ added to my store. 

Hie thinl nipht I went again. I bad determined to 
play for three ni);hts more ; to be very cautious, and then to 
abandon this disKrnreful mode of getting money. 1 did not 
expect such good fortune every night, as had attended these 
first two nights play, but I determined to risk but little of my 
newly ar(|uired capital, and to seize every opportunity that 
might (MTur of milling to it, during the remainder of the brief 
term to which I had restricted myself. 

Hut my faijric of hap|iine^s was alreitdy undermined. On 
that night I lost my all I I had resolved (o risk but little ; but 
in my insane endeavour to regain what I had lost, I risked 
by degrees all that I had won. I returned despairing to my 
hotel. My blood boiled in my veins from mental excitement, I 
tossed on my bed, and played over in fancy all the games of the 
evening. I corrected my stakes, and niiide plans — how 
effective I deemed them! — for to-morrow. I sle|)t ; but mv 
dreams were haunted by the sights and sounds of that hateful 
room. 1 awoke with fever. The next night I was cooler ; I 
went and played again, and put my schemes into operation ; 
yet they did not avail me. I lost again and again ; yet there 
I went night after night. -My health was sinking rapidly, 
when, coming home one morning, I caught a glance at my 
face in the glass — and oh, heavens ! shall I ever forget the 
expression of despair that was frozen there in the short time 
that I had devoted myself to these practices ! The agony of 
years had been compressed into that brief space of time. 
Worn and tired, I sank down — ai\(l acriflent, oh ! that I should 
confess it, brought me on HI jy A- /leis .' It seemed as if heaven 
had l)een pleased thus to warn me of my error, and I rose with 
a vow to forsake it. 

I was without a penny in the world ; but after my outpour- 
ing of shame and penitence, I felt comforted and resigned. I 
slept for some hours, and when I awoke I was calm and 
refreshed. My pecuniary diHicultics came to mind, and I 
studied how to get through them. I was thinking of what to 
do when I saw the Karl of Lynterton pass the window ; when 
suddenly inspired, I rushed out of the room, and imploring 
pardon for the liberty I had taken, 1 besought the attention of 
his lordship to my distrest situation. Happily, the good old 
nobleman recognized me ; and in a tone that I shall never 
forget, observed that a Christian minister should never want 
while he had the means of relieving his distresses. I could 
not restrain my tears, I felt that I had forfeited whatever 
cUim I might have had upon his Lordship's generosity as a 
Christian minister, and covering my face with my hands, I 
hastily retreated from his presence in shame and confusion. 
The Earl followed me into the hotel, and taking a chair by my 
side, entreated that I would disclose the cause of this strange 
emotion. I was overcome by bis kindness, his generosity, and 
disclosed every thing. Nothing was concealed. I could not 
look upon his face, but I told him all that had occurred. I 
expected his rebuke; but when I had ended he said, " And 
what i» your determination ?" 

" To return to some seclusion, where I may endeavour to 
«t(me for my past misdoing." 

"And with regard to the Lady Isabel ?" 

" Of her, whom I have dared presumptuously to love, I will 
think as of a being of a sphere beyond my reach." 

'• Have you the moral strength to break off this unfortunate 
Httnchment •" iisked the Earl. 

'* I feel that I have," was my reply. 

" Hut should the Lady Isabel happen ever to entertain as 
romantic an attachment for you — for she is romantic enough 1 — 
what would be your conduct then ?'' 

" I would remove the cause from her presence." 
" But if I desired you to remain where you were .'" 
" It would be my painful duty to obey." 

" Hut if I countenanced the match ?" 

I was anmzed by the question ; but the good Earl relieved 
my anxiety by informing me that the scriuon which I had 

delivered while a poor curate at , had made so strong 

an impression upon the Lady Isabel, and the elocjuence of the 
preacher had sunk so deep into her heart, that they had not 
been able to displace her affections, which had there rested. 
They had taken her to various places on the continent, but uo 
change of scene could cause her to forget the absent one, whoiu 
she had loved at first sight. Finding all endeavours useless, 
the Earl had written to his friends to make inquiries concern- 
ing me ; the reply was favourable as to my character, but 
that I had gone none knew where. 

The sequel may be guessed. My errors and my miseries 
were ended. I became the husband of the Lady Isabel. 


O rapt'rous Hope I Thy cheering voice 

Doth soothe us through li:e's thorny path, 
And strew with flowers of virtue's choice, 

Those dreary ways, till life be past : 
Who to the drowning wretch lends aid ; 

Say who can lighten slavery's yoke ? 
And who can soothe desponding age. 

Like thee, sweet Hope? 

Thou unto whom all ages bow ! 

For thee, how oft the lover sues ; 
To thee, the flatterer bendt th low ; 

Thine aid to none wilt thou refuse. 
Thou spur'st the soldier in the field, 

The exile's arms to thee will ope, 
The fear of death will oftimcs yield 

To thee, sweet Hope ! 

Without thee, life would be as dark 

As earth without the sun ; 
As sad as an enraptured heart 

Lost by its kindest one ! 
E'en as a lamp, whose oil is spent. 

Whose flame we do not note 
Until 'tis dim, as that oil lent 

To feed life's lamp, art thou, sweet Hope J 

What cheers us 'ere we gain our aim. 

When on life's sea our bark is toss'd .' 
What speeds the hunter to his game .' 

' Tis Hope supports them till the last ! 
What cheers us when the tempest lowers, 

And stormy winds tear up the oak ? 
What cheers the Christian's dying hour. 

Like thee, sweet Hope .' Mary. 




Cards, which were invented as an agreeable pastime, have 
become the source of unhappiness, ruin, and misery to many ; 
the desire for play is untempered by prudence, and in the rage 
for getting money by the various games that are privileged in 
society, all other considerations are lost sight of. It was not 
long after they were introduced, that they were converted to 
unworthy uses ; people saw that great gains were to be ef- 
fected by them, and they became eager to try their fortunes. 
Previously, the hours were passed away in conversation, by 
which the memory and understanding were kept in exercise ; 
but silence and gloom came with the card tables ; the face of 
youth and beauty, which had before shone in its natural love- 
liness, became clouded with frowns ; the eye shot lightning, 
rage disturbed the fair countenance, friends were alienated, and 
families injured — not to say ruined. I do not like to see 
females seated round a card table ; it does not seem to be a 
fitting place for them. I do not like to see them either intent 
upon the study of the game, or bursting with vexation and 
rage. The proper place for them is the piano forte or in the 
dance, when they are not engaged in dispensing happiness to 
man by their gentle but animated conversation. I do not say 
that cards may not serve for amusement, and also for un- 
bending the mind ; but when once there is excited an inclina- 
tion for card playing, it soon grows up into a serious employ- 
ment, and a passion that becomes ruinous as well to the for- 
tune, as the health. I have seen ladies, who till their devotion 
to the card table had been treated with proper respect, gradually 
loosing that respect by their continuing all night at cards 
with foreign adventurers, and others. In short, if the rage for 
card playing be not abated, it will materially injure the bright- 
ness of the female character, by destroying much of its beauti- 
ful delicacy and refinement. Miranda. 



A Tale. 


Love thee ! No ; my heart disdains 

To own a love for two ; 
Vows have passed, my faith is pledged 

To one — but not to you. 

Then ask me not to think of you, 

That question pray forbear ; 
A brother and a sister's love, 

Is all we two may share. 

Countess of Wootten. 

An Agreeable Contra st. — If we look into the female mind , 
we shall find virtues of a brighter hue, though not of the same 
colours, of which we boast. We have greater depth of investiga- 
tion ; they, greater acutenesss of perception. Our strength of 
mind is compensated by their liveliness. If we have more courage 
to brave danger, they have far more fortitude to meet distress 
Our eloquence has more force ; theirs has more persuasion. Their 
virtues are feminine, but as substantial and as useful as ours. 
You never hear woAien rail against the married state as unmar- 
ried men frequently do. Gentleness and forbearance are so 
sweetly tempered and mingled in their constitutions, that they 
bear the hardsh'ps of their lot, however peculiarly severe it may 
be, without repining or levelling a satire against such as are, by 
the generality of their sex, regarded as more fortunate. 

*' Can you forget me ? I am not relying 

On plighted vows — alas 1 I knew their worth ; 

Man's faith to woman is a trifle — dying 

Upon the very breath that gave it birth. 

But I remember hours of quiet gladness. 

When if the heart had truth it spoke it then ; 

When thoughts would sometimes take a tone of sadness, 

And then unconsciously grow glad again. 

Can you forget them ? L. E. L. 

There is not, perhaps, a more melancholy object for human con- 
templation, than a fair and fragile girl deserted by him upon whom 
she has placed all her hearts fond affections ; clinging round it 
ivy like, and which, when they are rudely disunited, lie perish- 
ing in neglect and loveliness. Woman, from her situation, and 
the natural delicacy of her sex, cannot redress her own wrongs ; 
men have a hundred opportunities and means of retaliation ; 
but woman must endure and weep. And numberless are they 
— bright — beautiful — virtuous and good — whose excellence of 
heart and mind might have spread happiness and bliss on all 
around them, and have made the earth which they inhabit 
slightly to resemble the Paradise of the blest ; but who — by 
the perfidy — the cruelty of one — loved "not wisely, perhaps, 
but too well," remain in solitude and grief, bowed down to the 
grave ; tears in their eyes, and sorrow upon their blanched 
cheek. One of these was Lucy Carrington, who had trusted 
in the vows — subsequently alas! proved to be false as the sands 
of the fair seeming sea — of Horace Davenel, who after basking 
in the sunlight of her eyes, and opening the secret recesses of 
her heart and soul, and being convinced that he only was there 
enshrined, forsook — abandoned her. He loved variety, or 
rather was at that age when man scarcely knows what he loves ; 
and often spurns a treasure which might become his, in his 
vague and undefined aspiration for something of greater value 
than is to be found in humanity. He forms ideas of perfection 
which have more affinity to the angels in Heaven, than to any 
" creature of earth's mould," and treats with scorn, all who do 
not reach up to it. After some few months of that pure and 
exquisite enjoyment, which is obtained when heart communes 
with heart, and each feels confident of the others sincerity, 
Horace Davenel grew cold and distant iii his manner to Lucy ; 
and, eventually, she was forsaken. 

Woman's heart is never inclined to doubt where it loves ; and 
Liicy, though she felt deeply the increasing reserve of Davenel, 
formed excuses for it to her own heart, and shut out from her 
mind the supposition that he could be unfaithful, until she could 
no longer deceive herself, and his continued absence, and some 
newspaper paragraphs conveying the intelligence that he was 
on the point of marriage with another, stamped conviction upon 
her mind, and reduced her to the lowest depths of despair. 

What could she do ? "A woman can but weep." Clinging 
to hope, she cut the paragraph from the newspaper and en- 
closing it in a sheet of paper, upon which she merely Avrote her 
initials, she forwarded it to Davenel. She waited anxiously 
for an answer ; day after day, she expected some tidings of the 



iDved one — whom she imnpinol hnd been misreprcsenti-d by the 
rCjMit ; but no letter eiiine , nnd tlicn — but not till then — 
could Lucy believe that the tits which had united their hearts, 
were severed ; — that she was no longer beloved. 

* * * * * 

It WHS about a year and a half after the occurrence of the 
e%ent aliove described, that a pale and feeble peiitlcnian took 
up his residence in Malvern, whither he had eone by the advice 
of his physicians. He appeared to be liibourinir under some 
heavy atHiction, mental as well as bodilv. Tlie beautiful breezes 
«if the hills, however, had an inviporatinp effect upon bis con- 
stitution, and he was >()on able to extend bis mornini^ rambles, 
and to join in familiar convcr'ntion. He had frequently met 
with a resident f^entleman, about his own ;iire in his walks, a 
Mr. I'ercivnl, whom he now joined in his shooting excursions. 
Mr. Percival was much interested in the stranirer: andfre- 
ijuently invited him to dinner, but the latter fenrinp that he 
should be tempted to take wine, wiiich mijrht have a bad effect 
upon his health, always declined those invitations, but was 
deeply sensible of the kinduess of his friend. Hy degrees the 
Ktranper became communicative, and one evening having walked 
toitether till tbey came near to his friends house ; the latter en- 
treated him to enter and rest himself. This invitation was not 
refused, and they entered an arbour overhung with clematis 
and wild ro'cs, the better to observe the glories of a beautiful 
sunset than tlicy could have done from the house. The stran- 
ger then, to relieve his mind, acquainted his friend with some 
particulars of his life. His heart had been given to a lady of 
worth and beauty ; but caught by the artifices of a crafty 
woman, who had more reirard for his forttme than his affections, 
he had deserted the object of bis first love, and bad been upon 
the point of marriage with the other ; but an accident had 
caused her character to be disclosed to him just upon the eve 
of their nuptials. His heart bad reverted to his first love, but 
when he soutrht for her, he could obtain no tidings. He learnt 
that she had been ill, and that with her widowed mother she 
had removed from the busy metropolis, and gone far into the 
country, but where, no one co\ild tell. " In my agony," con 
tinned the strangi-r, " I ru-hed to seek relief in wine. I asso- 
ciated with the dissipated, and the revels of the night were 
often carried far into the morning ; I tried to drown thought ; 
but conscience rose up against me ; dissipation and remorse 
reduced me to the brink of the irrave. I was for six weeks 
r-infined to my chamber, and, as a last resource, my physicians 
advise.l me to try the effect of the air of .Malvern. I have re- 
covered my bodily health ; but my peace of mind I cannot hope 
to regrain." 

The strantrcr paii<ed, and his friend taking his hand ex- 
claimed, " Nay. grieve not ; dn not despair ; the time may 
come when you and the beloved one may meet again." 

" In Heaven," exclaimed the stranger, " we mni/, periiaps, 
meet again ; bit on earth I fear never." At that moment 
the sound of a harp from within the house fell upon the stran- 
gers ear. He appeared surprised. 

" It is my cousin," said Mr. Percival, " I shall be happy to 
introduce her to you ; she has been herself deceived by a lover, 
and will know how to sympathise with your sufferings." 

Mr. I'lreiial rose to rond<ict the stranger into the house; 
but the harp was struck again, and the stranger suddenly laid 
bis hand UiK>n .Mr. Percival s arm, and besought him to pause I 
for a moment. Then listening to the music, he heard it a - 

companled by a voice which it teemed to him that he had heard 
before. The sonij ri.n thus : — 

' Can you forget me? My whole soul was blended, 

At least it sought to blend itself with thine ; 
My life's whole purpose winning thee seemed ended, 
Thou wcrt my hearts sweet home, my spirits shrine. 
Can you forget me .•' When the firelight burning, 
Flung sudden gleams around the quiet room, 
How would thy words, to long past moments turning, 
Trust me with thoughts, soft as the shadowy gloom. 
Can you forget them? 
" I cannot be mistaken I" cried the straiigLT, " I sure have 
heard that voice !" 

The song was continued — 

Can you forget mc ? This is vainly tasking 

The faithless heart where I alas ! am not, 

Too well I know the idleness of asking 

The misery of — why am I forgot? 

The happy hours that I ha' e passed while kneeling, 

Half slave, half child, to gaze upon thy face, 

But what to thee this passionate iippealing? 

Let my heart break — it is a common case. 

You have forgotten me ! 
"No, No!" shrieked the stranger, springing forward — 
"Lucy! ever adored Lucy — he is here — he — the false, the 
faithless Da venal !" 

The enraptured lover rushed into the house, a wild scream of 
recognition was heard, and when Mr. Percival entered the 
room, Horace Daveual, aud Lucy Carrington were lucked in 
each others arms. 

In the happiness of the moment the sufferings of the past 
were forgotten. And when Lucy found that her cousins friend, 
whose illness and melancholy, she had been previously informed 
of, was her lover, Davenal, she made no allusion to his errors, 
and when he asked for her forgiveness, she gave it with her 
tears, and soon the holy church witnessed their happy nuptials. 

Laura Percy. 


It is a lovely sight to view the sun 

Tinging the morn with nature's richest dyes, 
To gaze upon the earth, — a vast pavilion 

Of" loveliness, its canopy the skies ! 
'Tis soothing to inhale the sweet perfume 

Of dowers ; a pleasure to behold the green 
Of laurel, and to know that it will bloom 

In every season, in each changeful scene. 
But far more lovely than the break of day 

Is woman's first pure love ; it spreads o'er youth 
X lucid charm ; and sweet as flowers of May 

Her balmy breath, when breathing love aud truth ; 
Love that dies not, tho' treachery may give 
To it a gloomy shade, it still must live. 
Nottingham. R. T. M. 

Tht: Most Correct Gkneai.oc;y. — Francis the First 
asked one day of Ducbatel, the learned Bishop of Orleans, if he 
was a gmtleman ? " Sire," was the Prelate's reply, " in the 
ark of Noah there were three brothers — 1 cannot tell from w hich 
of them I am descended.'' 


C^CP^^ .y/c^tu/ifl^y ,^<^ji^^?iJ^ f^/^na-^. Cjnruiny 


'^iyf ja Mr//. 






' &c. &c. &c. 


LONDON, APRIL 1, 1838. 

Vor.. XV 










" Above, in royal state, 
The fair Victoria sat." 

The first embellishment of the present number of " The 
World of Fashion" will doubtless be highly acceptable and gra- 
tifying to our distinguished readers, because it perpetuates one 
of those scenes of great public interest, in which the young 
and beautiful Queen of a people's hearts — the fair Victoria, 
is the chief object of attraction : — it represents Her Majesty 
engaged in the performance of the important and interesting 
ceremony of opening the Session of Parliament. It will be re- 
membered that the first meeting of the Queen with her Parlia- 
ment in November last created a great deal of excitement ; the 
number of Peeresses present in the House of Lords to witness 
the ceremony was greater than had been before known on a 
similar occasion, and their bright sunny countenances, their 
■waving plumes, the richness of their dresses, and the blaze of 
diamonds and other jewels which adorned their elegant persons, 
mingling with the graver, but equally imposing figures of the 
noble Peers, presented a coup d'xil in the highest degree splen- 
did and imposing ; and when Her Majesty, the young and 
beautiful Victoria, came into the House with a firm step and 
graceful and dignified motion — the very impersonation of 
Queenly dignity — it is impossible for words to convey an idea 
of the excitement of the scene. There sat the fair young Sove- 
reign, upon whom all the cares of this great empire had 
devolved, graciously smiling upon her assembled subjects — the 
happiness of her pure and virtuous heart irradiating her coun- 
tenance, while every eye could read there the wish and earnest 
desire of the Sovereign, that every one of her subj'ects from the 
highest to the lowest, from the Peer to the peasantr should ex- 
perience similar happiness. 

Vol. XV. 

Fortunate Britain ! Having for thy sovereign, one whose 
capacious mind can conceive what is necessary for thy welfare, 
and who has the power to execute what she believes to be neces- 
sary for the production of peace, prosperity, and contentment 
among thy people. 

Let us now proceed to describe the feelings of Her Majesty 
during the month which is, at the time we write, drawing 
rapidly to its termination. Her Majesty has remained 
throughout the month at the New Palace in St. James's 
Park, and has given several select dinner parties to some of 
the elite of fashionable society. The weather having been 
favourable. Her Majesty has not only taken carnage airings, 
but has frequently been out upon horseback taking excursions in 
the vicinity of the parks, and upon one occasion passing through 
several of the streets of the metropolis. Pall Mall, Waterloo 
Place, Regent Street, &c., on her way to the Regent's Park. 
We are happy to say that Her Majesty has not upon 
any of those occasions, been annoyed by the vulgar curiosity, and 
the equally vulgar efiHisions of loyalty, which the appearances of 
such illustrious individuals in public have till now never failed 
to be attended with. Her Majesty has also visited Covent 
Garden and Drury Lane Theatres in private, when the same 
respectful demeanour has been maintained. 

Her Majesty's Levees have been numerously attended. 

We may here notice an interesting bit of gossip that is pre- 
valent in the Court circles. Most of the Ladies attending upon 
the Queen have been observed to wear their hair precisely in 
the same style as their Royal Mistress.. This is a point upon 
which Her Majesty is said to be exceedingly particular; the 
slightest disorder, or approach to untidiness, in this department 
of the toilette in any of her ladies, is sure to excite remark,, 
and that to in a manner not to be misunderstood. Some of the 
Ladies in waiting are accustomed to take their " ladies in wait- 
lug''' with them to the Palace, in order that they may receive 
the " finishing touches" just before they enter the Roya* pre- 

The Coronation of Her Majesty will take place in June. 
The diflference in the forms and ceremonies, that will be the 



con«eqiienee of the Sovcreigu bcin^ a female are already beginning 
to be discussed, and will, no doubt, tooa tint! emp'oymeat for 
the officials of the Henild's Collepe. There is no doaht that 
these persoiia<jes wouUl render tbe Queen an essentia), or, at. 
any rate, an acceptable service, if they could, by anv possibility, 
find a precedent for di>pensin(^ with, or at least oUeriii^, the 
form of the homage of the I'ct-rs ; as it is, Ueb. M/jesty 
will have to receive the kisses of six hundred old gentlemen on 
this occasion. The boraace is performed thus: — 'Ihe Arch- 
bishops aud Bisliops first, kiiecliiif before ti^e sovertitrn, tbe 
Archbishop of Canterbury saying aloud, and the rest of the 
Bishops following him, ' I, ^Villiam, Archl»isl)op of Canterbury 
(and so the rest of the Bishops) will be faithful and true, and 
faith and truth will bear, unto you our covert iin Lord (Led;)) 
and your Heirs, Kin^s of the Fnitcd Kingdom of G.eiit IJii- 
tain and Ireland. And I will do, and truly acknowledge ti'c 
Service of the lands which I claim to hold of you, os in right 
of the Church : So help me (lod !' The Arclil)i!<hops ard 
Bishops then ^et up, and kiss the SSoverci^n's left cheek. Then 
the temporal Peers (each class separately) follow. After the 
oath has been pronounced the Peers rise, but still remain un- 
bonnetted ; and each Peer, according to his rank and prece- 
dence, sinely ascends the throne, and touches with his hard the 
crown on the Sovereign's head, and kisses his or her clieek. — 
Now as it is not likely that many Peers will be absent on so in- 
teresting an occasion as the Coronation of our young CIueex, 
Her Majksty will have to undergo a rather severe infliction 
in the chaste salutes of the Lords spiritual and temporal. 

The Queen Dowager has taken up her residence in town, at 
Marlborough House. We are happy to say, that the illus. 
trious Lady is in the enjoyment of a favourable state of health. 
The principal apartments of Marlborough House have been 
elegantly fitted up for her .Majesty's reception ; but the repairs 
of the building are not yet completed. Tlie Queen Dowager 
takes carriage airing almost daily. There is no truth in the 
report that her Majesty is in treaty for the Duke of Devon- 
shire's marine villa at Kemptown. The house is not suffi- 
ciently capaeious to accommodate the Queen Dowager and 
suite, even if the contiguous mansion were added to the Duke's 

We are sorry to state that the Duke of Sussex is again suf- 
feriog from indisposition. 


When our Autumn sun is setting, 
May it sink in glorious I'ght 1 — 
As golden cloads that o'er it closes. 
Be our deeds and actions blight ! 
Inen be merry ! — theu be merry ! — 
Enjoy the moments as they pass ; — 
Let's be merry ! — 'ct's be mc-iy I — 
Fur we grow old too soou, alas I 



Dreary winter now is going , 

With it's snow and blustering wind ; 

Sprinsr — bright Spring ! — is fast approaching, 

W'ith flowers of various hues and kind. 

Then be merry ! — then be merry ! — 

Why dim hours as they flee .' — 

Let's be merry 1 — let's be merry, 

And make this life, a life of glee 1 

Though the winter's mow be melted, 

Age s woes do not decay ; 

Then wreath each day with joy's bright flowers, 

'Ere we sink beneath Death's sway. 
Then be merry ! — then be merry ! — 

Childhood's cherub morn has flown 1 

Let's be merry!— let's be merry ! — 
While youth's day ii yet our own ! — 

I Lady Blessington has done herself much honour by the gene- 
I rous encouragement and ussistunce whicli sbe has given to a 
I poor basket- maker on his road to liteiai-y fame. Thomas 
Miller, ti)c author of some very pleasin-j litt'c poems, and a 
novel which has recently been piiblisbed under the title of 
' Royston Gowcr is a m.nn of supeiior powers, but unt'l he was 
I brought forward by Lady Hlessington was in the condition to 
I wbici) Gray has sotouchingly alluded in his elegy by the n>etB- 
pUor of flowers blushing unseen and wasting their f.agrancc on 
the desert air. The poetical hasUet-uiaker was discovered by 
tbe editor of one of the iinnuals, but the merit of bripging him 
pron)inently forward belongs to Lady Uiessiogton. Ti)e story 
of his life is interesting. Miller is a native of Gjinsborongh, 
in Lincolnshi'-e ; his prnents were in ve. y humble circumstances. 
He rerelved some instruction in reading and writing at the 
a.tult school at Gainsborouel), in 1H22, but it was very little ; 
he tl en toik to the trade o( basket-making, which he followed 
for some time in the co.intry, aud then came to London, where 
he obtained a poor subsistence by making baskets, and oflfering 
tiicin for sale in the public streets. Sitting between an apple- 
stall woman and a vendor of oysters, did he offer his wicker 
baskets for sale, yet tliere, amidst tbe grossest and accumulated 
mass of i;.'norance and vice, did tbe in-dwelliug spark silently 
work through his blood and brain, and the un<|uenchable fire of 
genius blaze out. After Wi-lting some things for one of the 
periodicals for which he received a few shillings, he was one 
day sitting over the small embers of his dying fire, without a 
penny in the bouse, worUing at two baskets, for which Ue was 
to receive five shillings, the editor of one of the annuals en- 
tered his room and said, "Miller, I want you to write some- 
thing for me. I can't promise to accept it ; but, if you will 
send it to me, I will see what can be done." Miller rather 
hesitated ; but the other said that he knew he was in great 
distress, and put down a half-a-crowa to relieve h'm. On his 
depiirture, Miller sent his wife out for a peunv sheet of paper, 
a pennyworth of ink, and a pen, and Itco ponnds of rumpsteuks. 
The paper was brought, and by the light of the fire he wrote 
the poem of the " Fountairt," which appeared in " Friend- 
ship's Offering." " Here," said Miller, " is a beautiful poem ; 
but, dong it if I think that 'ere chap can appreciate.'' He 
folded the poem however, and waftred it with a piece of bread. 
We should have said that when he sat down to the poem, the 
two baskets he had to finish, and for which he should get five 
shillings, occurred to him. " Wicker against literature," said 
he, and finished his baskets first. The next day the editor 
called, told liim he thought the poem beautiful, and threw down 
two guineas on the table. Miller had never before possessed 
such a sum, and his delight and surprise maybe well conceived. 
He actually barred the house that night Ittt he should be robbed. 
Tbe gentleman engaged him to write another, and another. 
Poems were written, and guineas flowed in. Fortune seemed, 




at last, to smile upon the poet. His rise upwards has been 
very great. The Countess of Blessington, of whom he speaks 
in the h-ghest terms, used to send for him ; and there, after 
sitting with her, B.ihver, D'Israeli, and viith his feet on the 
Tmke/ ca'pet, he had to run down to Waterloo Bridge, or 
some siich place, to sell baskets! liie Countess (bless bcr 
heart !) used to endeavour to mal:e him accept money, which 
he sLeadily refused ; but one day she bc'ckcd lr<n to the door, 
and as she got him outside, exteadsd her hand, " Good bye, 
Miller;" when she relipquishcd her g^asp, he found three sove- 
reigns in his hand. Mr. Miller is justly proud of his rise, and 
does not now ape the gentleman, or despise his former lowli- 
ness. A few years ago, and wiii)e unknown to fame, he called 
at the house of his old schoolmaster to thank him for the little 
instruction which he bad received. He then offered me a few 
old books, " Burke on the Sublime" and others, as he wanted 
a few shillings, being then quite destitute. Only think of such 
a genius selling Burke — perhaps his text-book ! 


Among the earliest presentations at this year's drawing- 
rooms, it is said will be the Lady Adelaide Fitzclarerce, eldest 
daughter of the Earl of Munster, now in her eighteenth year ; 
and the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Jersey, Lady Sarah 
Villiers, is also named as a dehatan'e, altliougb unusually young 
for a presentation. From the extreme youth of Her Majesty 
many fair belles of distinguished families are to be introduced 
into the gay world earlier than has been the case heretofore ; 
an emancipation which will bring much spirit to the dances at 

Almack's. — The Lady-patronesses have fixed the first bplj 
for Thursday, the 5th of April. From its being the only ball 
before Easter, and the same day on which Her Majesty holds 
her drawing-room, a more numerous assemblage is anticipated 
than is usual at the first ball of the series. 

Miss Phillips, the daughter of the Honourable Mrs. 
Phillips, will make her debut this season. Miss Phillips is a 
highly accomplished young lady, and is in her seventeenth 

■ The Duchess of Cannizarro appears to have a very high 
opinion of the intellectual and conversational powers of the 
singer, Di Novo, seeing that the bewhiskered foreigner so 
frequently accompanies her to the public places of amusement. 
The singer must think it a very high honour so to be favoured ! 

Matrimoxial Jars. — It is rumoured in fashionable circles, 
that another separation is about to take place : the gentleman in 
this case being a baronet of ancient title, and formerly of very 
large fortune, much of which has been lost in St. James's 
Street. The lady, it is said, has endured much ill-treatment, 
and is at length resolved to return to the happy home of her 
childhood, and live separate from him who, although he vowed 
at the altar to cherish and protect her, has, nevertheless, not 
merely neglected her, but been utterly regardless of the great 
truth conveyed in the poet's lines : — 

" He who lays his hand upon a woman. 
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch, 
Whom 'twere base flattery to call a coward !" 

The Dancing Parties are loudly complained of by a cer- 
tain set of fashionables, who prefer actualities to idealities, and 
best approve of the " poetry of motion" when th« forks are 

going. They gay that dancing parties are given merely for the 
sake of cheapness — all dance and no supper. We dare say that 
there are some prudent people who are influenced by this consi- 
dei-atinu, hut they form but a small — veiy small— portion of 
fashionable society, and ought to be excluded. 

There is no truth in the rumour of a contemplated marriage 
between Lady Augusta Somerset and Mr. Gilmore. 

There a^e to be no theatricals at Bridgewater House this 
year. Tlie reason for this we cannot tell. 

The Heiress. — Numerous reports are in circulation about 
the state of the affections of a certain young lady, whose recent 
immense acquisition of wealth, owing to the death of a ctle-- 
brated duchess, has excited so much sensation in the grt-at 
■world. Among many other prenx chevaliers, to whom rumour 
has assigned the heart of the fair object of attraction, is the 

young Lord Fitz n, grandson of the Duke of N , who 

is handsome, and also rema'kahle for his intellectual and moral 
excellences. His lordship bad the honour of opening the State 
Ball at St. James's Palace in May last, with her present Ma- 
jesty, then the Princess Victoria, in honour of whose arrival at 
the age of eighteen, the ball was given by his late Majesty. It 
is further said, that a Duchess (mother of the wealthy Duke of 
S — -— d) has been instrumental in bringing about the match, 
and that the families, who have not until lately passed a visit- 
ing catd, pay visits dsily. We cannot take it upon ourselves- 
to coni-radiet this report, although we have no reason to be- 
lieve that there is any truth in it. But we may also state, that 
it is privately whispered in circles supposed to possess oppor- 
tunites of arriving at something approaching to correctness of 
opinion on this interestin-j topic, that a certain young actor, 
who has recently been higuly successful in histrionic assump- 
tions, is the most lilcely person to win the rich prized It is well 
known, that the lady has added the tiagedian's name to her 
visiting Ust ; and we are given to understand, that one evening 
a party was given by ihe parents of the young heiress, to which 
many distinguished fashionable were expressly invited to meet 
the successful actor. The report goes, that the wedding will 
take place at the termination of the gentleman's present engage- 
ment. If this be true, the wedding will create a sensation as 
great as that which was produced when the contents of the 

late Duchf s of 's will were made known. But where is 

the bereaved widower all this while ? Does he not oflfer for the 
prize .' 

BowooD. — (The seat of the Marquis nfLdnsdowne).— One of 
the most pictuiesque and beautiful of the country mansions of 
the nobility is Bowood.the seat of the Marquis of Lansdowne. 
As you approach this fine estate the ground becomes unequal, 
the vegetation rich and luxuriant. There is a long drive through 
the park, which is thickly wooded with lofty trees, before you 
reach the mansion. Being situated on a considerable eminence,, 
which commands the country far and wide, it has a. very beau- 
tiful appearance. The principal edifice is of extensive propor- 
tions, and is joined on the right side, but retiring, by a wing 
only one story high and of great length, more in style of , a villa, 
with a long open colonnade. On the terrace before it is an 
elegant flower garden, divided into regular beds. The wall of 
the colonnade is adorned with larger plants : myrtjes, pome- 
granates, passion-flowers, all in full blossom. On entering 
the colonnade, you are surrounded by innumerable, flowers, 
which fill the air with their fragrance. Behind this is the chapel , 
and in two beautiful large apartments the library. In one of 
them the book- cases are ornamented with elegant imitations of 
Greek vases, and in the other by bronzes, after the most celo- 




br»ted anUques. On the other tide of the main buildinfr, in- | 
Btrad of a wing corre spondinp with this, there is a shorter wing, ' 
adjoiuiiiK the back front, before which, in the angle that it 
forms it another flower garden, but more retired and private. I 
The pro!ii>cct from the house is singularly fine. At the foot of 
the gently.sloping hill, a lake of considerable extent spreads i 
out in two beautifully-winding branches, the opposite bank of 
which rises again, and is thickly covered, like th.,, with the 
finest timber. Farther on the view is bounded by fruitful | 
plains, closed in with a hill. The writer accepted with the , 
greatest pleasure the kind offer of Lady Lansdowne, to inspect 
the pleasure grounds. The advantages of the lofty and most 
vigorous of the native trees, such as the oak, the ash, and the 
beech, are here happily united with the most various trees and 
shrubs of southern vegetation. Cedars of Lebanon, in their solemn 
inajestv, raelaiuholy cypresses, laurels, cork, oaks, cheerful 
arbutus, and tulip trees, and many others, are joined with the 
most refined taste, in thick masses, in larg« or small indepen- 
dent groups, and afford the most manifold variations, of com- 
pletely secluded forest solitude, of a confined view from the 
mysterious gloom to the remote horizon, to the richest and 
most various views of single parts of the garden, to the mirror 
of the lake, with its beautiful chain of hills, and then far into 
the country beyond it. The spectator cannot fail to admire in 
particular the taste for the picturesque, with which care had 
been taken to form beautifully graduated middle distances, 
and v*ith which the whole is again united by the velvetty 
lawn, which is kept in the most admirable order. Here 
too the artificial waterfalls are very imposing. The fall 
rushing down in a considerable body between moss-grown 
rocks, and overarched by the fresh verdure of lofty trees, affords 
the most refreshing coolness, and makes one quite forget its 
artificial origin. These grounds have attained such an extra- 
ordinary degree of perfection, for their having been laid out by 
the father of the present Marquis, who has continued to im- 
prove in the same spirit. 


Thf. New Opera. — In the musical world all the talk is 
abont Halevy's new opera of Guido et Ginevra ; ou, La Pesle 
de Florence, which has just been produced at the Academie 
Royale, and with the most decided success : and we have reason 
to believe that more than one of the London managers are 
endeavouring to secure the score for the production of the 
opfra and its beautiful melodies in an English version. The 
new Opera is a fine sparkling affair : and, although in five acts, 
it does not tire, but keeps the excitement and interest of the 
audience alive from the first scene to the last. The plot, which 
\* very attractive, runs thus: — Towards the year 1452, Guido, 
then a young and humble student, subsequeutly an eminent 
sculptor, met at a village fvte Ginevra, the daughter of a 
Cosmo de Mediris, who was wont to mix in disguise in rural 
amusements. The student fell in love with her, though her 
high rank was concealed from him : her heart was also touched, 
and they parted, she promising him another meeting in another 
year. On the return of the annual yc'Vr, Guido is at his post, 
and Ginevra soon finds her way to it also. In the mean time 
Forte Braeehio, the head of a gang of Condottieri, whom Cosmo's 
beneficent government has deprived of their ruffianly trade, is 
on the look out for someone whom he may plunder. Heespie* 

Ginevra, and, not doubting that »he must be •ome great lady 
in disguise, pounces upon her. Guido bravely defends her, but 
is wounded ere the peasantry of his paternal farm can come to 
his assistance. They rescue him and his beloved, and she is 
conveyed away, after weeping over what she considers to be her 
lover's corse. Furle Brncchio is condemned to be hanged, but 
very improperly saved through the interposition of Riccinrda, a 
celebrated cantatrice, the mistress of Manfredi, Duke if 
Ftrrara, who even takes the scoundrel into his service, as a jack 
of all foul trades, including that of poisoning and stabbing. In 
due time we have Guido, who has recovered from his wound, 
rising in eminence, celebrity, and favour, at the Medicis' Court, 
and Gineera the unwilling bride of Manjredii, and as yet un- 
aware of Guido's resurrection, and of his being her father's 
favourite guest. This comes out on the wedding-day, when 
Guido, by Cosmo's order, has the great but unwelcome honour 
of leading her to the altar, where she is to be wedded to hi» 
Highness of Ferrara. His Highness detecU mutual love in 
their mutual surprise and sorrow, and desires M. Forte Braeehio 
to do away with the enamoured sculptor forthwith. But 
/?icfiarJa'« Neapolitan blood Ls boiling with rage at the unex- 
pected marriage of her lover. She offers Forte Braeehio a larger 
bribe to slay the faithless Manfredi instead of Guido, but he 
proposes the mezzo lermine of destroying Ginevra, which is 
accepted. Commissioned by his master to bring her presents, 
he introduces among them a poisoned veil, which, amidst the 
wedding/f/«, she decks herself with. Its effects are soon felt, 
she shrieks, fulls, and is deemed dead of the plague, which is 
just then spreading and doing dreadful havoc at Floren e. She 
is splendidly interred in a vault iu the cathedral, where Guido 
comes and weeps over her remains. When all is still and lonely, 
and night has come on, Ginerra wakes from her trance, is 
horror-struck at finding herself in the abode of the dead, and 
faints and falls when she finds that she cannot get away. In 
the meantime Forle Braeehio has mustered his gang, to invade 
the church and plunder the jewellery which ornaments the grave 
of Cosmo's daughter. He leads the way to the tomb, but the 
robbers are panic-struck on beholding the shrouded figure of 
Ginerra, whom the fresh air from without has rallied. Whilst 
they are crossing themselves in terror, she takes leave of her 
vault, and stalks out of the cathedral. She proceeds to her 
father's palace, where Manfredi is carousing with Riccinrda and 
a party of jolly fellows. A knock at the door attracts their 
attention. Ricciarda shrieks with horror on beholding what she 
takes to be Ginevru's ghost. Manfredi derides her delusion, 
and himself goes to the window and discharges a firearm at the 
troublesome spectre. He and all quake at his deed, and he is 
presently seized with the plague. All fly from him, but he 
clutches Ricciarda and clings to her, and both struggle behind 
the scenery, where the scourge is supposed to put an end to 
their unworthy lives. l»oor Ginerra has, meanwhile, wandered 
in despair about the town, which the plague is desolating, and 
Forte Braeehio and his crew plundering and firing. Guido, on 
the other hand, is busy relieving the miseries of all classes. On 
his way he stumbles upon a young female lying on the cold 
stones. It is Ginerra, but it requires some time before he can 
per>uade himself of it. A duet, however, explains all, and like- 
wise conveys the assurance of their continued affection. He 
prevails upon her to retire to a farm in the Appenines. Cosmo 
soon moves to that rural quarter, and perceives among the 
villagers, whose calamities he has come to alleviate, the figure 
of Ginerra, whom Guido has induced not to reveal her existence 
to her father, lest it may cause tlu ir separation. She rannot, 



however, resist her sire's lamentations on the loss of his 
daughter, She rushes into his arms, and he readily consents 
to the marriage of the lovers. — Of the music, several parts are 
very beautiful. Into a trio of the first act M. Halevy has 
introduced a romance, than which a sweeter composition was 
never heard ; nor was ever a song sung more beautifully than 
this is by Duprez. The deafening applause which he elicited 
in the part of Guido was repeatedly renewed, especially in a 
piece where he mourns over the tomb of Ginevra, and entreats 
the monks of the church to let him tarry by it. Mme. Dorus 
was also most deservedly applauded, especially in a grand air, 
where Ginevra recovers from her trance, and finds herself 
among the dead. Several other morceaux were honoured with 
acclamation, including one sung by Forte Braccio, a part which 
does great credit to Massol. There is also more than one 
chorus of great merit. Madame Stoltz enacted the part of 
Hicciaida, Derivis that of Man/redi, and Levasseur the 
part of Cosmo. 

Ancient Concerts. — The first concert of the sixty-second 
season was given at the Hanover Square Rooms, under the 
direction of his Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge. The 
preponderance of Handel's compositions in the programme 
shows that the Royal Director is, like his revered sire, a great 
admirer of that mighty master's works. How finely conceived 
is the introduction to the Coronation Anthem, the arpeggio 
passages given to the violins, while the basses roll majestically 
from one modulation to another, until the whole strength of the 
orchestra, voices, and instruments, pour forth in rich harmony 
" Zadok, the Priest," &c. The effect which this burst pro- 
duced in Westminster Abbey, cannot be forgotten — many per- 
sons were quite overcome, others shed tears ; but they were 
tears of devotional joy. A scene from Joshua was well sustained 
by Mrs. Knyvett and Mrs. Bishop; the latter was very 
successful in " Hark, 'tis the linnet." Of Mrs. Knight (late 
Miss Povey) we can at present only say, that her voice is a 
soprano of great power, but it appears to be much better calcu- 
lated for a large theatre than a concert-room. A chorus from 
Israel in Egypt would alone have immortalised Handei, ; it was 
exceedingly well done : indeed, the same praise may be fairly 
bestowed upon all the chorusses. Mr. Hobbs gave " Softly 
sweet" in a musician-like manner, and Lindley's violoncello 
accompaniment was, as usual, charming. Phillips deserves 
favourable notice for the manner in which he sung " Revenge 
Timotheus cries." He gave it with his accustomed energy. 
The Hallelujah Chorus was sublimely performed; the descending 
passage of five notes for the trumpet was given with an effect 
truly electrifying, by Harper. There was a brilliant attend- 
ance. It is worthy of notice that when his Grace the Duke of 
Wellington entered the room the company rose to acknowledge 
his presence. 

Quartet Concerts. — There was a brilliant attendance at 
Willis's Rooms, to hear the fourth and last concert of the third 
season of Mori's quartet parties. The gem of the evening was 
Beethoven's quartet in E flat. Op. 74, for two violins, viola, 
and violoncello. This composition may be fairly considered as 
one of his most stupendous works. The lovely subjects which 
are scattered in glittering profusion through every movement — 
the graceful episodes abounding therein — and the masterly 
treatment from the commencement to the end, alternately 
delight the imagination and satisfy the most rigorous judgment. 
Mori and Tolbecque took the violins, Moralt the viola, 
and Lindley the violoncello. The concert passed off to the 
unqualified satisfaction of all the amateurs. 

A critical report of all the novelties at the 


HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE.— We never remember any 
season, to have commenced so auspiciously as the present ; 
every thing has been done on the part of the management, that 
could in any way conduce either to the comfort or convenience 
of the subscribers, the house has been thoroughly cleaned and 
re-decorated, the former green being replaced by a rich yellow 
and white, and burnished gold ; and chandeliers have been 
placed over the principal tier of boxes, adding considerably to 
the brilliancy and effect of the house ; the orchestra is much in- 
creased, and the chorusses and corps de ballet have been en- 
tirely re-modelled at a considerably increased exi enditure. M. 
Laporte being anxious that the establishment should be 
worthy the patronage of Her Majesty, has omitted nothing 
in his power to render the present season the best we have yet 
had ; and we are happy too add the subscribers have come 
forward with proportionate liberality, the subscription list beinpr 
unusually full, and displays more names of rank and fashion 
than have hitherto graced it. 

The opening Opera was the Sonnamhula, when Madame 
Persiani made her first appearance in the country as Amina, 
and with a success that must have been most gratifying to the 
management. Persiani remincis us more of Ciuti Damoreau, 
than any other performer we know ; her voice is not very power- 
ful, but of exquisite quality, and she manages it with all the tact 
and judgment of a finished musician ; she gives her music with- 
out any apparent effect, and executes the most ditficult passages 
with the greatest ease to herself. She is one of those singers, 
who the oftencr they are heard will be more appreciated ; there 
is no striving for effect, by lours deforce, but a correct ear, 
good taste, and brilliant execution. The finale seemed to take 
the house quite by surprise, it was sung with so much feeling 
and expression, displaying the singer to every advantage. The 
applause from an over crowded house, was truly vociferous, but 
was well deserved on the part of Persiani. 

Signor Tati, the tenor, is a singer in the same style as Ru- 
bini, though with scarce the same compass in the upper notes. 
He sings with much taste and feeling, is correct both in ear and 
judgment, and manages his voice, which is of good quality, with 
all the skill of a practised musician. The management will find 
him a very useful performer, and considerably better than most 
they have had hitherto. 

BoRRANi, the new basso, pleases us much, his voice is loud 
and sonorous, and he seems to have it well under command, a 
rare thing for bassos ; he sang the music allotted to the Count, 
especially the charming vi ravviso, in a highly creditable manner, 
and was much applauded. We hope soon to see him in some 
more prominent part. 

Deshayes' favourite ballet of Moisaniello was revived with 
all its original splendour, in the way of new scenery and dresses, 
and went off with very good effect ; the principal attraction, 
however, was Maddlle. Bellon, who was so successful in Paris 
during the last season, and who bids fair to be equally popular 
in this country. She is slight made, rather inclining to be 
petite, with a pleasing and expressive countenance ; she is a 
graceful and finished dancer, with more elasticity and quickness 
than we have been accustomed to of late from a danseuse, and in 
her dance with Costou, in the first act, she met with a most 
gratifying reception. It would be unjust were we not to speak 
in terms of praise of our countrywoman, Forster, who per- 



formed FentUa. This lady has bftn «onic time a fuvourite iu 
Fari», ha*iii^ residrd there for years; her actiii;?, as 
frn •/?(«, was ir.arri'ul a-'d einressivc, and her diiiicMiT, ia the 
yioV.-o, sln-n.'il f'nt he- t.i'ciits as a dance- are of 'lo me.Tix 
order. We wcr? iile;i>icd to see our old Tricnd Co'ilon odcc 
more with sever.i' o." t'>c esta'dishcd /avouritcs. 'Ibe b.illet 
weat o!T, nltocfet'icr, w'tii in'ic'i spirit. 

The b.iOet, this season, will he unusually stron'» ; the join us after K.istcr, and Taglion! is also spoken 
of. Dksh AYKS is bitsird ahoiit a ncwballcifortlie Ei.lslkrs, 
which is to be of a very novel cha'-.icter. There is, also, coa- 
sidrrable acti\ity about the estHlili^hment, prepiirin-j the new 
operas, wlpch are to be brought forward in the most liberal 
manner, as regards the assistance of scenery and dccoracions. 
The chur.isses will be dilUeil with more than usual care. 

COVKNT-GAIIDRN.— Mr. Macrkadv has further distin- 
^ished his admirable manasreinent of this theatre by the produc- 
tion upon a scale of splendour unsurpassed on any previous 
occasion, Shakspeark's historical traced y of Corjo//in«« ; or, 
The Roman Matt n. Since the time of the late John Kemble, 
whose personation of the Roman hero was accounted one of the 
greatest of that great actor's achievements, the tracredy has not 
been very fre(iuciitly represented, indeed it is comparatively un- 
known to play-eoers, but it nevertheless abounds with poetic 
beauties, and opportunities for the maniffestation of dramatic 
talent ; bat talent of a secondary order is not able to make any 
lin|)ressiou in the Icadiiip^ character, and this we consider to be 
the reason of the play being so seldom performed. The late 
Mr. Kean attempted the character, but his style was unsuited 
to its severe classicality, and his fiirure was quite at variance 
with the text. Mr. Macready has acted wisely in repro- 
ducing Coriolanut before the public, and the way in which he 
has brought it forward is so extraordinary, that as often as it 
may be performed it will always attract pood audiences. The 
new scenery is extremely beautiful, the scenes, indeed, are a 
succession of splendid pictures, the Roman camp and the view 
of Antium, by moonliffht, beini^ superior to any scenic represen- 
tations that we ever recollect having witnessed. 

Mr. .Macready's Ciiri<,}anHS is one of his finest persona- 
tions ; it is a perfect triumph of the histrionic art. From the 
first scene to the last the dienity and heroism of the character 
is well preserved ; in his first address to the mob, above whom 
he feels that he is so much exalted, his demeanour was that 
of the perfect hero, bold and chivalrous, undaunted by the pre- 
sence of the factious populace ; rebuking their ill tempers and 
thsir miserable and ignorant vacillation. In the scenes of 
battle, Mr. Macready displayed all the fine heroic features of 
the character, and the extpiisite modesty of the hero in refusing 
the proferred honours after the triumph at Corioli, was depicted 
with becoming grace and unequalled truthfulness. His manner 
also in the scene of the Ovation was exreinely fine ; his tender 
reganl for his mother and wife, and bis devotion to his country, 
were characterized by all thr)se nice touches which no one so 
well as Mr. Macrkaoy ran impart to dramatic representation. 
His subsequent scene with his n-.other, the interview in the 
Volscian camp, and fhe final conlest with Tullus AufiJius, were 
all played in such a manner as no other livintr actor could play 
them, and elicited the most enthusiastic applause. The other 
characters were well played. Mrs. Warner played the virage 
Volumnia to the lif''. She was a perfect Roman. Mr. Wariie 
in f'nminius, Mr. Seri.k in 7"i7i/j Lnrtiut ; Messrs. Bennett 
and OinoKARas the tribunes, Brutus and Siciwus, and Mr. 
▲nbkrson as TuUui Aufidiut, are severally entitled to our 

praise tor their exertions to increase the effect of the play. Mr. 
JiAKTLEYtuok the piirt o: MftxfnUs Ayrippi, but he was suffer- 
in'f Jrora severe cold and I'oarsencss, and was not able to do it 
per.Vct justice ; this is an error which is dou'i.less removed 
by t'lis time, and the wlmle pc<-rorm!<nce, therc.uie, may be 
accounted perfect. 'Ihe C'Uize.:s, playcuby Messrs. KIeauows, 
.\ylifke, 1'ayxe and others, were the finest and truest speci- 
mens oi f'e " ni'ibucrac^" that we ever beheld. T;ie final scene 
was beautiu'l, and the cur jiin lell amidst shouts of aniilause 
l^lr. JiowARD LvTTON Bui.WEn's play o.' /A- Luify •■/ I.qo-is 
continues to be hi^rhly attractive ; the acting is certainly of the 
first-rate oruc, and some uf the scenes aie full of the mott 
touching pathos. 

DiaiKi'-LVNE. — Mr. Charles Kean has added the 
characcer of .Vir Giles Ocerreach. in .Massinger's play of v4 
.Vfio ll'ay to Pay Old Debts, to his other dramatic assumptions. 
This character is peculiarly adapted for the exercise of his 
I singular abilities ; the broad effective !<tyle of his acting is here 
quite suitable, and some of the incidents as represented by him 
have an electrical effect upon the audience. We consider it to 
i be the best of his assumptions ; it is full of energy and terrible 
1 effects. His scenes with his nephew Welhurne, with his 
cauorhter Margaret, and the fearful one at the conclusion, v. hen 
j he finds that all his long cherished hopes are gone, were given 
I with a breadth of effect which we have not seen anything equal 
I to since the time of the e/(<«r Kean. ButMr. Charles Kean, 
! though remarkably clever and very effective, is not iu our 
opinion a really great actor ; he seems to us to be capable only 
' of enacting what he has seen others do ; but this he ac- 
i comjjlishes uncommonly well. Indeed, with the exception of 
' Mr. Macreauy, there is no actor at present on our stage at 
I all equal to him Mozart's Zauberflnie has beeu produced at 
j this theatre, under the title of The Magic Flute. Considerable 
I alterations have been made in the text by Mr. Planch E, who 
I has adapted the opera to the English stage, and the plot now 
I runs thus : — Tamino (Mr. Temfleton) a prince of Thebes, 
has fallen deeply in love with t'amina (Miss Ro.mer) the 
daughter of the Queen of Nii/M (.Mrs. Seguin) who is leagued 
with the principle of evil. From three of the attendant spirits 
of the latter, Tamino learns that Famina is a prisoner in the 
temple of Isis, whither he resolves to proceed, and, encounter- 
ing all the supposed dangers of the undertaking, rescue her. 
A droll fellow, whose avocation is that of a bird-catcher, Papa- 
(jeno (Mr. Balfe) volunteers to accompany him, aud the three 
sable sisters, in order to promote their success, give to the 
))rince a magic flute, whose sound is always to be a source of 
aid to him in difficulty, and to Papageno a sort of sistrum en- 
dued with similar virtue. By these means the two adventurers 
get access to the dreaded halls of Isis, but soon find that they 
are discovered aud made prisoners. Sarostro, however, the high 
priest (Mr. Phillips) seems worthy to represent the principle 
of good, and instead of punishing the culprits, resolves to win 
the prince from his connection with the Qu^-rn of Darkness, and 
initiate him in the mysteries of Isis. The like design he enter- 
tains towards Pamina, and he further resolves that if both go 
through the severe ordeal of virtue, their union shall be accom- 
plished. The prince is an easy convert, and the ordeal is 
accordingly prepared. First, to try his obedience, he is ordered 
to part with Pamina, previous to his dangerous experiments, 
with stoic indifference, and this, notwithstanding her tenderness 
and reproaches, he succeeds in accomplishing. Then his forti- 
tude, as well as hers, is put to the test, in passing through 
regions of flame and regions of ice. The whole affair, which 




se«m3 nappreciable nonsense, is gone through auspiciously, and 
the Queen of J^iohl is thoroughly defeated in her machinations, 
and the lovers are united. \n the mean time Papagtpo also 
encounters bis mate and becomes again as merry a bird- 
oatcber as ever, in the kingdom of Jlemphis, ard wbeedles a 
cana'-y in^'o a net. Such is the genei-al import of the plot of 
the Zaubeijlotc, aiid a more solemn phantasy from beginring to 
end (Pcpaacpi), of course, in a parenthesis) cannot well be 
imagined. Yet for this has Mozait composed some of his 
sweetest airs and most refined baiinonies. Tae airs, for the 
most part, have been equally familiar with their source, and the 
conceited portion of tb^; opera, if not so well known, is, in each, 
and all its parts, a rieligatlul specimen of pure, rich, and easily 
intelligible composition. A consistency of style, or what the 
painter calls keeping, pervades, in a wonderful manner, the 
entire work ; so that the ve.7 gaieties of Pnpagtno seem tem- 
pered with a discretion, subluing it from all boisterous or broad 
humour. We may cdd that in the whole opera there is very 
little of strong contrast, or roughly powerful effect, the con- 
cluding chorus being by far its strongest portion. Miss Romer 
took the character of Panvna, and sung the music as well, pro- 
bably, as any English vocalist could sing it. The duet between 
ber and Templetont, " Soft pitj/noio the breast invadinq," was 
highly effective, and w^as received with great applause. 
Phillips, Templeton, and Balfe, are also to be commended 
for the creditable manner in which they executed the music 
assigned them. Upon the whole, however, the music went 
heavily. It was folly to produce a grand opera after a five act 
play. M()z.\RT would never have suffered his Divine music to 
be produced as the after part of the evening's entertainments. 

OLYMPIC. — We have witnessed with much pleasure a 
Vaudeville at this theatre, bearing the quaint title of " I'ou 
cnn't muri-ij your Graniiniother !" and which the able acting of 
Parren, Mathews, and Madame Vestris, renders very 
entertaining. Its plot is highly humorous. Sir Rose Bromley 
(Mr. W. Farren), a by-gone Adonis, the guardian of Emma 
Mehille (Madame Vestris), is desirous of uniting her to his 
grandson, Algernon Bromley (Mr. Charles Mathews), fjr 
whom she has an evident attachment, but of whose affection in 
return Sir Rose is by no means so assured, plunged as his 
nepl'ew is in the vortex of London fashionable society. Ihe 
opening scene of the piece is at Richmond, where Algernon's 
presence is momentarily looked for. He arrives, but his stay 
is necessarily short — making but a call, en passant, on his way 
to fulfil an engagement at a neighbouring seat, where he is 
to meet a Miss Worthiugton, of whose charms he is lavish in 
bis p.aise. In the short interview which takes place between 
Emma and Algernon, it is clear that on his part at least, every 
friendly feeling exists, as he receives from her, with evident 
pleasure, a bouquet and purse. Though mortified at his too 
sudden departure, she is yet delighted to find, through her 
Abigail, Mrs. Trim (Mrs. Orger), who produces the proof, 
that he. had treasured up, with the greatest care, her former 
presents. Sir Rose, convinced that his nephew entertains a 
passion for his ward, which he is only indifferent to, from 
deeming it secure, determines him to adopt a stratagem, to 
which be obtains her consent, by which his sincerity is to be 
tested. For this purpose they leave the vicinity for the 
metropolis, and from the " Clarendon," forward Algernon, 
first, a pair of white gloves ; and, secondly, with an invitation 
and a piece of wedding cake. Frantic with disappointment, he 
determines in&tantly to quit England, and for ever ; but pre- 
viously calls to take leave of his grandsire, whom he finds 

equipped as the bridegroom ; and it is not until after his feel- 
ings have been wrought upon to the highest pitch that an 
eclch-ii^scment ensues, ard the lovers are rendered happy. 
Tbere is an under-plot, in wn'ch, " like master end mistress, 
like man and maid," Ready (J. "Vining), the servant of 
Aher)'on, and 'J'om Small (Keeley), at first the page, and 
afterv\ards the rall-biovvn fcocran of iMiss MelritJe, are iivals 
for the band of her waiting-woman, who, with the, cunning and 
capric'Oiisness of her sex and calling, alternately encoarages 
the hones of both, but eventually Iie.stows her band o\i Ready, 
fo- the reason, as she assigns, or the disparity in si?e between 
herself and hev other suitor. Vestris was vei v admirable in 
the character of Miss Me ville ; she acted and sung to perfec- 
t'on. Farren's character also suits his peculiar siyJe, and be • 
ptftrays it with adinirable effect. Ihe getnng np of the p'ece 
reilects the highest credit upon the taste of the fa'r and talented 

Another pleasant burletta has been produced here urder the 
title of What have I done ? Perkins (Farren), an old bachelor, 
passing througli Rochester with the intention of attending an 
auction at Maidstone to purchase Roseberry F&rm, has for a 
travelling companion in the stage a Mrs. Bouncible (Miss 
T*1iirray), a lady who, previous to her marriage with 
Mr. Bouncible, had been attacbed to Ensign Jenkins, had given 
him her picture, and bad also corresponded with him. In spite 
of her most earnest desire the Ensign not only refused to return 
these, but, to aggravate his refusal, acts the unmanly part of 
showing them to his brother officers. The lady, taking ad- 
vantage of her husband's absence, proceeds to Rochester to 
claim the interference of Colonel Sternly (Mr. W. Vining), 
Jenkins's uncle, to induce the nephew to give up the articles in 
question. Being a stranger, she asks for the assistance of 
Mr, Perkins, her fellow-trav Her, who becomes involved in 
various difficulties in consequence of his knight-errantry. 
Mr. Bouncih'e (Keei.ey), who has come to Rochester to call 
out the Ensign for his showing the letters, at first selects 
Mr. Perkins as a second, but on the old gentleman stating as 
an excuse that he was engaged in a lady's service, and that 
there was &Jei\hius in the case, he brands him as a hoary-beaded 
go-between, and threatens to annihilate him when he has put 
an end to Jenkins. A meeting takes place between the two, 
and the Ensign is wounded ; but Bouncible is arrested at the 
moment and taken to the Colonel's, where all the other 
dramatis persunie are assembled. Here he meets his wife ; an 
explanation takes place ; the letters and picture are given up, 
and the piece ends, Mr. Pe: kins being assured by all that his 
conduct has been that of a perfect gentleman ; but no one can 
inform him " what he has done." All the charactei-s having 
left the stage but himself, without giving him the information 
he solicits, he turns to the audience, and requests that some 
lady or gentleman will either drop him a line, or call again and 
tell him " what he has done." 

This is an amusing little affair ; and having perfect justice 
done to it by all the performers engaged, it has been played 
several times to good audiences. It is not equal to some of the 
author's previous productions, but is nevertheless a commei.- 
dable trifle. 

CITY OF LONDON.— Several highly attractive pieces have 
been performed at this theatre during the month, among which 
Mr. Jerrold's drama of The Housekeeper is remarkable ; 
chiefly for the very charming acting of Mrs. Honey in the 
character of Felicia. The management of this highly-talented 
actress continue* to prosper. 


Tin: \voui>n or fashiox. 



We have had another dull month, but few marrinpe* hnve 
taken pliice in hi^h life ; Iljrmen has been idle mid the priest's 
office ulrncmt a sinecure. Of tho>(e few unions of hearts and 
hands which have ()ccuiTed since our last pulilication, let us 
fir*t mention the wedding of the fair Ei.kanor, second 
daughter of Vice-Admirul Sir Richard H. Hossky, of Wood 
WcJton, to the Right Hon. St. Anorkw Bkauchamp, Lord 
St. John, of Hletso, whose nuptinls were solemnized by special 
license at the Views, Huntingdonshire, by the Right Rev. the 
Lord Bishop of Lincoln. Immediately after the ceremony, the 
happy pair departed for Melchbourne, his lordship's scat in 
Heilfordshire, where they are spending the honeymoon — days of 
blins which we hope may know no end till life itself expires. 

.Another distinguished pair have passed up to the sacred 
altar, and there offered their mutual vows of eternal con- 
stancy and truth; the Right Hon. the Earl of Arran, and 
Miss Elizabeth M. Naimkr, daughter of Colonel Napier, 
C.B. This happy event occurred at Freshford, Somerset; the 
Hon. and Rev. Anneslky Gore, officiating. 

We have alfo to notice the marriages of W. M. Barnes, 
Esq., .M..A., of Trinity College, Cambridge, to Rosa, eldest 
■urviving dausrhter of John Savkry Brock, Esq., and neice 
of the late gallant major-general Sir Isaac Brock, K.B. And 
on the 22d ult., at Barkby, Leicestershire, Horack Jamks 
Bkll, Esq., of Craven Street, London, to Elizabeth 
Frances Pochin, eldest daughter of the late George 
POCHIN, Esq., of Barkby Hall. 

We have now to proceed to the melancholy part of our duty, 
and describe the houses in which death has made victims, and 
suppressed the voice of pleasure and joy, and given rise to 
frief and mourning. The first stunning blow of grief, as a 
distinguished writer has happily observed^ is not the mourner's 
worst pang ; it is afterwards, when the long roll of sorrow is 
unfurled, replete with recollections of the past — it is the con- 
trast of mi.sery with joy— it is the recollection of blooming 
hopes and expectations which are cut off, compared with the 
present utter dearth of hope, or the expectation of any coming 
joy, which traces as it were a map of misery before our eyes, 
over which we know our lone footsteps must travel the pilgri- 
mage of life, and leaves the heart an utter wreck. Grief, last- 
ing and bitter grief has been caused in all the circles and all 
the places where the footsteps of the lamented Countess of 
Lonsdale were familiar: for a more worthy and exemplary 
lady never lived ; her amiable manners, and the grace as well 
as goodness which distinguished her conduct and deportment, 
will long be affectionately remembered. Her ladyship was in 
her 78th year, and was, before her marriage. Lady Augusta 
Fane, eldest daughter of John, fourth Earl of Westmore- 
land, sister to the present Eari, and half-sister to Lady 
Elizabeth Lowthkr. Her Ladyship had been united to 
Earl Lonsdale more than half a century. 

It is not the aged alone that fall b<neath death's arm, the 
young perish likewise, and pass away like flowers untimely 
plucked. We have to record the death of the young and 
graceful daughter of the Eari and Countess of Wilton, the 
Lady Mary Guy Egerton, in her nth year. 

How frairrant is the spot where Beauty sleeps, 
That sacred spot o'er which Affection weeps, 
Where the warm tear bedews the flowerful mould. 
And seeks the cheek that's as the marble cold. 

" Oh Death thou hast thy victory" — but why ? 
Will thou not listen to the yearning sigh 
For those whose beauty reaches not its prime, 
" But lades like young flowers in a frozen cluue. 
Thou hast thy victory " — thou lov'st to view 
The opening rose just filled with morning dew, 
Then tear it from its stem with rude rebound, 
And dash it blcedinir to the ruthless grouud, 
" Thou hast, " indeed, " thy victory" — but mark 
That same sweet spot with waving cypress dark. 
Mark how the setting sun-beams gently rest, 
Aud bathe in living light its pensive breast. 
Know, from what mellow radiance we borrow 
.A double promise of the " glorious morrow," 
And an angelic resurrection morning 
Kindling lost life and beauty in its dawning. 
We must also state, with deep regret, that Lord Eastnor has 
been deprived, by death, of his youthful daughter, the Hon. 
Isabella Jemima Cocks. The deceased young lady was 
sister of the Hon. Miss Cocks, Maid of Honour to Her 
Majesty the Queen, aud grandaughter of the Earl and 
Countess of Somers. Lady Elizabeth Russell died on 
the i3th ult., at Aix, in Provence. Her Ladyship was the 
eldest and last surviving daughter of the late Earl of Louth, 
and, at her death, was in her 86th year. She is succeeded in 
all her titles (Baronies of Athenry and Dclvin,) and her estates 
by her only son, Thomas B. D. Henry Sewell, grandson 
of the late learned Sir Thomas Sewell. 

Contkmplated Marriages. — It is confidently whispered 
in the fashionable circles that a Noble Lord, who has for a 
considerable period held a most important and responsible office 
in the State, will shortly be united to a most accomplished and 
beautiful widow, of high rank and title, and of exaraplary 
virtue. There are, however, certain reasons why the celebration 
of the ceremony should be deferred for a few months. The 
marriage between the Hon. Sydney Clements, second son 
of the Earl of Leitrim, and the wealthy Miss Gibbons, of 
Cork, has, we understand, been postponed, in consequence of 
the death of one of the Noble Earl's sons in Africa. 


We have not received the tale enquired after by C. (May 
Fair). It would else have received immediate attention. 

CUmaiitlie's " Lines on a departed friend," might serve for 
an elegy on a lap-dog. 

We are happy to hear again from our correspondent at 
Melton .Mowbray. 

The Tate of Mystery is remarkable only for its obscurity. 
We cannot make anything of it. 

Penrtope, like her namesake of old, is spending her time to 
little purpose. We do not like to discourajje young writers, 
but Penelope's case is hopeless. 

M. Positively. 

One, at least, of the prose articles of Mirand* shall appear 
iu our next. 

Patience is a virtue. There are those who have been waiting 
for an audience longer than Henricus, and ladies, too ; yet they 
have not complained. A word to the wise is enough. 

Received:— £//a ; G.A.; Countess of Woolen; K. L. K. ; 
La Jeune Veuce ; Miseremus ; Larinia ; and Z. 0. Z. 

Erratum. — In our present number, page 92, second line of 
' second stanza, for " lie ambush,'" read "lie in ambush." 

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Fig. 1. — Robe (unique of tulle, over white satin ; the robe 
has a double skirt, the upper one which opens as a tunic is edged 
round with a very broad hem through which a pink ribbon is 
run ; a rose with buds and foliage is placed on one corner of 
the tunic, and another on the opposite side of the skirt j a low 
corsage, draped in very full folds round the bosom, and orna- 
mented, as are also the sleeves, in a very novel style. Head- 
dress of hair a la Sevigne, ornamented with a gerbe of roses. 


Fig. 2. — Robe of azure blue satin; the border is trimmed vrith 
two biais ; the skirt is ornamented on one side with ostrich 
feathers, attached by knots of ribbon, with a jewelled ornament 
in the centre of each ; a low corsage, draped and pointed, with 
sleeves of the demi-Venelienne kind, ornamented with ostrich 
feathers. Head-dress of hair decorated with a wreath of 
flowers and ostrich feathers, the latter inserted in the ringlets 
at the sides, and drooping over them. 

dinner dress. 
Fig. 3. — Bright green rep velvet robe ; the corsage is trimmed 
with a square lappel, bordered with lace ; melon sleeve, trimmed 
with ribbon and lace ; a knot with a profusion of coqnes adorn 
one side of the skirt. The hair disposed in platted braids, is 
ornamented in a very novel style, with flowers and lace lappets. 


grand costume. 

Fig. 1. — White satin robe, the border trimmed with gold 
blond lace ; looped in draperies by gold ornaments. Corsage a 
la Pompadour, trimmed with pink ribbons, gold ornaments, and 
gold blond ruffles. Head-dress, a dark green velvet turban, 
ornamented with gold. 

morning visiting dress. 

Fig. 2. — Emerald green satin robe ; black rep velvet man- 
telet, trimmed with black lace. Pink pou de iSuie hat ; a mode- 
rate sized brim, the interior trimmed over the forehead with 
blond, and a single rose on one side ; the crown is ornamented 
with blond lace, and pink ostrich feathers. 


Fig. 3. — White satin robe ; trimmed with a superb gold 
blond lace flounce, and a heading en suite ; it is raised a little 
on one side by coques and ends of oiseau ribbon ; the corsage is 
cut very low, and is full trimmed, as are also the sleeves, with 
gold blond lace and ribbon. Headdress of hair, ornamented 
with a superb bouquet of ostrich feathers, and an agraffe of 
coloured gems. 



Fig. 1. — Tulle robe over a very pale straw-coloured satin 
slip ; the skirt of the robe is trimmed with two of the deepest 
flounces that have appeared, and ornamented at the top en tablier 
with coques of straw-coloured ribbon with floating ends ; a tight 
corsage, trimmed with gold blond lace, and sleeves of three falls. 
Head-dress of hair, adorned with gold blond lappets. 


Fig. 2. — Rose coloured satin robe, the skirt is trimmed with 
three flounces of moderate depth. Corsage a la Dubarry, orna- 
mented, as are also the sleeves, with blond lace. The hind hair 
disposed in a twisted knot, is decorated with a bouquet of 
white ostrich feathers, and a full blown rose is placed on one 
side among the ringlets of the front hair. 


Fig. 3. — The robe is of lavender bloom gauze over satin to 
correspond ; the skirt looped in the centre, is ornamented with 
bouquets of violets intermingled with large silver leaves. The 
corsage draped a la Tyrolienne, and short full sleeves, are orna- 
mented en suite with the addition of knots of ribbon ; a gerbe of 
flowers to correspond adorns the hair. 



Fig. 1. — Blue satin robe ; the skirt is trimmed en tablier 
with the same material, disposed in a very novel style ; corsage, 
drape and manche a volans. Head-dress, a petit bord of blue 
velvet, decorated with silver blond lappets, and a white ostrich 
feather. Silver ceps are placed among the ringlets on one side. 


Fig. 2. — A tulle robe, with a double skirt over white satin ; 
the upper skirt open in front, is bordered with a bouillonnee of 
tulle, and ornamented with knots of rose ribbon, and a bouquet 
of gold and coloured flowers ; the corsage is draped en suite, 
and the sleeves trimmed with bouillonnee. Head-dress of hair, 
decorated with a gold bandeau and flower, ostrich feathers, and 
a sprig of foliage. 


Fig. 3. — Pelisse of lilac pou de Soie ; the corsage is made 
rather open, and the whole is bordered with bouillonnee, arranged 
by an orange silk rouleau. Manche a la Duchesse d' Orleans. 
White pou de Soie hat ; the crown is trimmed with white ostrich 
feathers and ribbons ; the interior of the brim with a wreath 
of flowers. 





Fig. 1. — Pelisse n.bc of straw cilourcd Pou de Soie; the fiont 
of the skirt is trimmed with a cluster of rou/'ci/s and ornnmeirs 
composed of tlic miifciiai.s of the dress. II'C curs ^ge is quite 
high, and ornnmentcd wii'i rou'enus. Virtoria sleeve. I'l-hii 
ptlerineni Mechlin lace, ornamented in a novel style with rihbou. 
Hat of green velours ■//•gle ; a round and very open brim, tnc 
interior trimmed en bonnet with ijlond lace, fiowers, and b'oiid 
lace lappets ; the crown is decorated with flowers ai?d ribbons. 


Fig. 2. — White crape rol)e over a sky blue sat'u slip. The 
robe is trimmed round the with bouillonpe'e ; knots of 
ribbon and a pavcche of the pluniBt^e of a foreign liird. 
Corsage butqu/, trimmed with hoi'il'onnee, and a fall of bh'i'd 
lace. Slecves en suite. lU^d dress a blond lace bonnet u la 
Suisse, ornamented with roses and wliite satin ribbon. 


Fig. 3. — Grey Peiin robe, trimmed round the border with a 
8inirleflo.ince; the braidiujr and the border of which is edged with 
ruby satin. Munche a la iJuchrsst d' Orleans Collet hruche of 
English lace. Hat of spiins gretn pou de Soie, trimmed with 
while marabouts and greea ribitous. 


Fashions mav this month be compared, not unaptly, to a 
coquette, who, find'ng her just beginning to decline, 
calls in all the succours of art to her aid. Thus, the modes of 
winter having lost in some degree their noveliy, are now more 
sumiuuousthan ever; and what with new and tasteful trimmings^ 
and -iome variations in the fot.ns of dresses and millinery, the 
fashions of the month are well worthy of the atfcnlion of our 
fair readers, as we shall now proceed to anno.ince them. 

Bonnets.— It is as yet too early to announce any thing 
positive as to the forms of bonnets, but we have every reason 
to believe that the brims will not increase in size, but that 
they will be worn rather wider round the face, and not standing 
so much out from it. Drawn bonnets are expected to be ve-y 
much in favour. Several new patterns, both of striped and 
plaidcd silks, will shortly appear for tiiciu. 

Hats will be of Italian straw and white ch'p. Several irai- 
taticms of the latter will, we know, be introduced, but we cannot 
yet say how far they are likely to be fashionable. Hats a-e 
expected to be decidedly of a larire size, and there is reason to 
believe that the half-gipsey shape will continue in favour. 
Spring flowers ai-d ribbons, the latter of new but not showy 
patterns, will be the tiimmings in favour. 

Shawls.— We see already several of China crape, and 
Cashmere embroider.-d in very rich and various patterns, the 
grojt.ds are mostly light; some have the embroideiv in a darker 
shade of the same colour; these latter are very well c:tlculatrd 
for promenade dress, they are quiet and gentiewonianly. A new 
summer shawl, called Chdle- Pompadour, is expected to appear 
very shortly ; it is of a peculiarly light kind, ornamented with 
embroidery of a novel description, nud trimmed either with 
frinre or lace. 

Robes in Half DREss.-lf we have not yet to cite new 
materials, at least, we have to announce a change in them • the 
rich but heavy velvets and satins that have been adopted .luring 
the last four or five months, have given place to pou d^ Soie 
bazinelle,, and gros de Turquxe. As to tjic form, of robes, we' 

see as yet very little alteration. One that i* mvch in favour is 
a corsage more than hiilf-bigh at the hov\, and particularly 
cpc'i, e;i ceeur, a'l down tl'C front; it is edred with naTOw blond 
lace, which is nrrati^id in such a manner as to form a small 
luppel ; Victoria sleeve ; the skn-,^ quite as full as usual, is 
i trimmed with a flounce with a full heading, wh«ch is edged with 
very narrow bloud. We must not forget to oiihcrve that a 
chrwiselte of a new description is very gcuc-ally adopted with 
these robes; it is a guimpe u la Suisse, of Ivlle, m><i\e quite high, 
8'i(i dispose 1 from top to bottom in small lon-.riludiMal pl.iits; it 
is edged ;it the neck with a narrow velvet ribbon, laid on flat. 
I IIkai) Dresses in Half Dress. — Those most generally 
I adopted arc caps ; tlicy arc still of a. very simple form, but we 
I thinl. more genera'l) becoming than we have seen them for 
j mauy sea.sons. We may cite, among the prettiest half dress 
I caps, those of a uew kind of tulle; it is as light as that commonly 
in use, but richer, the caul is low, and nearly sittim; close to the 
head ; the front arranged in flat plaits on the forehead, and two 
boiifl'ants on each side, 'ihe trimming consists of a wreath of 
small flowers which encircles the caul, and some light sprigs of 
the same flowers placed in the bouffants in front. Another cap 
wbieh is very much in favour, is of blond lace ; the front is 
funned of a narrow lappet ; wliich is placed plain and double 
over the forehead, but disposed in putfs at the sides, and 
terminates in short ends which hang upon the neck ; the puffs 
may be formed either by ornaments of ribbon, or very small 
sprigs either ol" flowers or foliage — there is no other trimming ; 
this is a singularly light and pretiy style of cap. The bonnets 
a la Pai/saiiJie, a It Cordui/, tVc, i^-c, which we have so often 
described, are still in favour. Hats are partially worn, but they 
do not, with the e.xccption of the very elegant one given in our 
thud plate, affbrd any actual novelty. We beg to call the at- 
tention of our fair readers to that, as we consider it one of 
the most decidedly elegant half dress coiffures that has yet 

Flounces. — We have it fr.un the very best authority, that 
flounces which are uow so much in favour will be continued 
during the summer, and that they wMl be worn narrower than 
at present, but with two, three, or even four upon a dress, so 
as to reach nearly to the knee. Spite Of our devotion to La 
M:de, we cannot help entering our protest against this act of 
her sovereign authority. If the fashion was confined to Brob-- 
dinagian belles, it would be all very well ; but what arc the 
Lilipulians to do if tl'C mode becomes general? It is certain 
tliat a little woman, however pretty and symmetrical her form 
may he, can never look well in these trimmings. We would, 
therefore, engage undersized belles not to go to the extremity of 
the fashion ; they should confine themselves to one flounce of 
moderate depth, or too very narrow Oiies ; it would be still 
berter if they did not wear them at all, and if a skirt without 
trimming does not please them, let them adopt some other kind ; 
they may be sure they cannot choose any that arc more unbe- 

Head-dresses is Grand Costumf. correspond in splen- 
dour witli the robes ; turbans a .fi»it rui/e are in great request, 
they are of crape, lace, or gold or silver blond lace ; they take 
their name from the manner in wliich the ends are disposed. 
Peli/s cord* have lost nothing of their distinction ; in fact, it is 
one of the most becoming as well as elegant heHd-dres,ses of the 
season. We shall cite as the most perJcct model of this kind 
of coiffure, one that has recently appeared ; it is composed of 
granite velvet, the edge of the brim is encircled by a string of 
pearls ; a knot of velvet, placed on one side, supplied the place 


of the feather which usually ornament these head-dresses ; it 
was secured by a superb agraffe of pearls, and terminated iu 
long floating ends, which descended nearly to the knee. Caps 
are also in great favour in lull d'-ess, particulpvly velvet ones of 
an entirely uovel kiud ; the crown fits close to the head, and is 
terminated by a small curtain cut huis, and so disposed as to 
lend itseli' to the movements of the ueck ; it is rcaUy a vei-y 
graceful accessory. The front is formed by wreaths of green ov 
red currants with gold foliage ; these little sprigs extend as a 
wreath upon the forehead, and form tufts at the sides. A 
simple style of cap, but one that is adopted even in the fullest 
dress, is of very rich blond lace ; it is ouiamentcd with wreaths 
of flowers without foliage, tiiese wreaths are somelimes even 
composed of the petals of flowers. There is no ribbon em- 
ployed for these caps. We may cite as a very pretcy crp, some- 
what in this style, one composed of iuUe, and Uimmed with a 
wreath of roses disposed en Maneini ; that part of the wreath 
■which adorned the forehead was rather small, and was not 
covered with iidle, bat the roses which fell upon the checks 
were enveloped iu it ; the caul of the cap vias very small, and 
■without ribbon. 

Ne-w Spring Fashions. — Embroidery will this spring be 
more in favour than it has been for some years past. We have 
already seen several new patterns both for robes and pelisse 
robes, trimmed with flounces. Several of white or light- 
coloured pou de Soie are embroidered in silks of striking colours. 
We may cite, as an elegant model of these dresses^ a pelisse 
robe of whitepox de Sui^ embroidered in a sprig of lieire,W\t\i a 
foliage of two shades of green ; the stalk is marron and the 
seeds red ; a small pattern in azure blue ornaments the space 
between each sprig. Embioidety \-ii!l also be very much in 
favour for light summer malccials, as iuUe, muslin, a'^d oyguiuly. 
Tulle, embroidered en appUqw',. will be ve^y much in rccjucst. 

Spring Evening Dresses. — It appears certain tljat a 
marked degree of simplicity will tai.e place of the pjesent 
splendour. We have already seen some robes of India muslin 
and oigandy, without any other ornament than while, blue, or 
rose-coloured satin ribbons. Orgaiulj will, no doubt, be very 
much in fa\our, both plain and figuicd, whiLe and coloured. 
White and delicate coloured flowers, ai^d also wreaths of foliage 
■will be very extensively used for trimmings of robes; they have 
a very pretty effect on tunics ; and there is no doubt that the 
tunic form will be generally adopted through tbe summer. We 
have already seen some of India muslin, buUi clear, and jaconot 
trimmed with very rich lace ; the skiri;s ^^ ill be either of cambric 
or muslin, embroidered in one or several rows en riviere, agd 
edged with narrow Valenciennes lace. 

Spring Colours are expected to be pink of the most deli- 
cate tinge, various shades of rose, several light shades of green, 
lilac, pale straw, light blue and povssiere. For silks, &c., in oat- 
door dress, neutral colours will be universally adopted. 



Balls and Sorrees are the order of the day ; indeed, it is 
universally acknowledged, that there has not been so brilliant a 
■winter for the last eight years. As to outdoor costume, the 
changes that have taken place iu that, are rather a resumption 
of the fashions of last autumn, than actual novelties. This 
cannot be wondered at, when we reflect that the time for long- 
champs approaches, and with it the spring fashions, from which 

we may promise our fair readers next month a very rich harvest. 
Iu the meantime our prints will testify, that the present month 
is by no means barren in elegant novelties. We now proceed 
to lay befoie our fair readers, such further intelligence as we 
have been enabled to gain. 

Caiotes. — Ibose of the drawn kind are more in favour than 
last month, but the swan's-down or marabous that edged the 
biiui, is once more exchanged for a niche of iulle. Wadded 
ca/xJps are almost entirely laid aside, and the few that continue 
to be \vorn are all of light c )lours. The only decidedly novel 
ca^Mie that we have to announce, and a very elegant one indeed 
it is, is composed of pou de Scie, either pale pink, blue, or 
wnite, and is trimmed with English lace, which encircles the 
crown, and is edged round the bottom by a wrearh of white 
Persian lilac to correspond : a suialler tu!t of lilac adorns the 
interior of the brim over each temple. It is not the seasou 
to expect much, novelty in cJcipsuux ; the forms remain the 
same, but the trimmings are lighter than las', month ; feathers 
aie less in vogue, a good many are decorated with a sprig of 
velvet flowers or foliage, which issuing from the right side, sur- 
mounts the top of the crown, and droops on the left near the 
cheek. If the interior of the brim is trimmed, it is either with 
flowers only, or flowers intermingled with blond lace, or lalte ; 
in cither case the trimmii'g descends upon the checks as low as 
the chin. We mrst observe, that this fashion, which is now 
very generally adopted, is in nine instances out of ten unbe- 
coming, but faslpon is a despot, who will allow no resistance 
to her sovereign authority. 

Mantelets-Ciiales have resumed their vogue- sbce the 
weather has been too warm for mantles. We refer to our prints 
for t.ic only novelty of that kind tbat has appeared ; the variation 
in the form, tl)ougli slight, renders it more graceful. Large 
square sliawls of velvet and satin, have also been again brought 
forward ; they are in general trimmed with fur, but some bor- 
dered with black lace have re- appeared. Some that may be 
termed decidedly novel, and that \^e think are very likely to be 
favorites during the spring, are composed of the finest Cash- 
mere, wi^h a border embroidered in detached bouquets of 
floncrs in coloured Chenille; the border is rather broad, and the 
colours very vivid; the Cashmere is always of quiet colours; 
the elfcet is at once neat and tasteful. 

Flrs begin to decline in favour, or rather we should say, 
they are worn according to the weather; when that is very- 
severe, tbey are adopted as usual, but when the day is mild, 
the muff is laid aside, and a flat fur tippet of the soarf form, 
somewuat broader, than half a quarter of a yard, and from one 
yard and quarter to two yards and half in length, is adopted 
instead of the large palatines, which have hitherto been worn. 
We have good authority for saying that swan's-down will pre- 
serve its vogue, both for boas, and trimmings, until the weather 
becomes ex'cremely w?rm. 

Lingerie. — All collars adopted in morning dress are of a 
small size ; the ptiils collets broche'e, which had rather declined 
in favour, have regained their vogue. Small round collars are 
also very fashionable ; but what shall we say of the exquisite 
perfections to which embroidery is brought at present ; it rivals 
the ri^-hest laces both in price and appearance. English net 
embroidered iu a new stile of hrodeiie applique, is coming 
very much into favour, and is expected to, be extremely fashion- 
able during the summer. 

Pkomenade Robes. —Very little change has asyet taken place 
in the materials of robes selle, ones are, however, more general, 
and those of Cashmere, poplin, &c., aie little seen. No altera- 



tion* whstcTfr ha« Uikeu place (d cortaget. Sleevei are 
neither tiftht nor larije; b (f ood deal depends on the fancy of the 
wearer, or of her dress maker, and we see with pleasure, fhat 
partirular attention is paid to the loumure of the wearer ; this 
is much better than the indi>criMiinate adoptions of any form of 
BJeeve, which while it is becoming to one, may be decidedly 
disudxnntaL'cous to another. The maricfi'S a la Janlitiiere, are 
upon the whole the most in vogue, and may, indeed, be pro- 
nounced the most generally becoming, they are made tight at 
the shoulder, and with a very deep tight cuff buttoned on the 
Inside of the arm. In some instances the sleeve is not cut 
tight on the shoulder, but when that is the case, the fulness is 
confined by a flat piece cut in the form of a V, which comes 
from the shoulder, and descends upon the arm. 

t^oRSAGF.s IN f^'KNiNG DiiKss. — They are a good deal 
ornamented. Some with draperies, others with blond or real 
lace : we must observe that gold and silver blond has lost 
nothing of its afraetion ; several new patterns have lately ap- 
peared, some of which unite great richness to an extreme de- 
gree of lightness. Corsnyrs are all worn cut very low, the 
most novel stile of trimminir is composed of three ribbons 
which issue from the shoulders, and meet in the centre of the 
bosom, they are laid on flat except at the ends, which are full, 
«nd which thus forms a new stile of drapery. Another orna- 
ment for a rnrsaiie, which forms the shape in a very graceful 
manner, is a drapery of the material of tlie dress, laid on in 
folds of a very lijrht kind, and terminating iu two rounded ends, 
which cross in the centre of the bosom ; draperies of this latter 
kind are always edired with narrow blond or real lace. 

Skirts in Evkning Dress continue to be ornamented 
with flounces ; they are disposed either in two or three rows, or 
else arranged in drapery. Those robes that are made without 
flounces, are usually looped on one side to display the under 
dress. The ornaments employed must be in unizion with the 
materials of the dress ; thus, bouquets of flowers for crape or 
gauze dresses, and ornaments composed of ribbons and blond 
lace for silk ones ; gold and silver blond is in particular request 
for this purpose, it is arranged in a knot, with which precious 
stones are sometimes inint;led. 

Robes Tcniques are frequently made with the corsngt 
which we have described above as being ornamented with 
ribbons. These dresses have a double skirt, the upper one, 
which opens rn (unique, is edged with a boujfant of ribl)on ; 
towards the centre on the left side is an agrajftt, from which a 
broad ribbon falls in drapery, and is attached on the right side, 
near the bottom, by a knot with two long tlOating ends. 

CoiFFi'RES EN Cheveux IN EVENING Uress, have this 
winter certainly suffered a complete revolution ; they are now in 
fact brought almost to a uniform degree of plainness. The 
hind hair is always arranged in a twisted or a platted knot at 
the back of the head ; it is placed very low, almost, indeed, at the 
nape of the neck. The front hair is disposed in ringlets 
a r /inylniiie or in braids h la noli'ile. 

Ornaments ok C'oifkirf.s en Cheveux. — Fashion gives 
nnbounded libertv to her votaries; flowers, jewellery, what they 
please in short, for vnrietv is the order of the day. The only 
stile that we can di>tingui>-h as being most irenernlly adopted 
is that of a guirlamle, forming a wreath on the head, and 
descending in a tuft on each cheek at the side. This form may 
be applied to all kinds of yuiilundes, whether flowers, ribbons, 
or jewellery. Velvet flowers are a cood deal intermingled with 
caps of ifold or silver, and where as is often the case, red or 
(rreen velvet leaves are employed to ornament the hair, they 

ar« frequently sanded with silver or gold ; the effect Is beautiful, 
particularly when the leuveH are iuteriuingled with rich lace 

MAsauERADE Dresses. — They offer this season less variety 
and more splendour than we are accustomed to see ; ribbons of 
light colours, and materials of a slight kind are laid aside. We 
see every where figured satins, brocades, and damasks ; ribbons 
of a great variety of colours, and embroideries of a showy and 
bizarre description. The costumes adopted by ladies of high 
rank, are those of the days of Louis XV, the falbalus and 
powdered coiffures of the Pompadours and the Dubarrys. 
Another and very opposite style which is also in favour, is the 
national costume of the Dutch ladies. Although black dominos 
are those most generally adopted, they are not considered so 
elegant as coloured ones. Some of those latter, well worthy 
of notice, are composed of rose-coloured reps trimmed with 
marabouts ; others are of relours e/.ingle, some trimmed with 
marabouts, and others with flowers. We may remark en 
passan/, that the masquerades this season have been woefully 
deficient in well supported characters, and consequently very 

Bals de Fa.mille. — Long gloves of black fiUt are very 
much worn in these parties ; they are trimmed at the top with 
ruches of lace or jet. Black lace lappets also are frequently 
intermingled with flowers in coiffures ; thus we see a sprig of 
roses attached on one side by a knot of black lace, the ends of 
which fall upon the neck. In other instances, a papillon of 
diamonds is inserted in the centre of the knot, and the flowers are 
not employed. Another pretty style of coiffure for these parties, 
is a knot of velvet formed by a bius band doubled with very long 
ends; it is attached by two gold pins on one side. 

Petit Bal de la Cceur. — As none but the elite of the 
nobility appeared at this ball, we have made a selection of 
the most strikingly elegant dresses from the many splendid ones 
that were seen there. Before we proceed to detail them, we 
must observe that the English ladies present, were equally re- 
markable for the brilliancy of their beauty, and the elegance 
and taste displayed in their dresses. 

Countess ok C . — A robe of white /«//e over one of the 

same material on a white satin slip ; the upper dress had the 
skirt raised on each side by two smalls wreaths of blue bells, 
intermingled with silver cps ; they looped the dress about half- 
way to the waist, thus forming a drapery sufficient to hang with 
an easy and graceful fulness ; a half wreath adorned each 
shoulder, and a h^quet in the centre of the corsage. Head- 
dress of hair, ornamented with a wreath of blue bells, inter- 
mingled with diamonds. 

Madame de S . — A double robe of white gauze, bor- 
dered with silvpr fringe in such a manner as to perfcetly form a 
tunic. The under drops was alf-o bordered with silver fringe. 

Madame de V . — A white gauze /ise robe and tunic, 

bordered only with a plain hem. The crsnge ornamented with 
a knot of diamonds in the centre, and another placed on each 
sleeve. The coiffure was composed of a bouquet of diamond* 
placed on one side of the head. 

La Comtesse Saint A . — A robe of white Pekin, 

raised on one side of the skirt almost to the reinlure by a bou- 
quet of roses, thus producing a large drapery, which displayed 
the uiidcr dress of white satin, trimmed with a deep flounce of 
denti le de Sot/. Cursnye h point, and tight sle( ves, trimmed 
with ninurhelles, each looped at the bend of the arm by a rose. 
The hair was decorated with a wreath of roses, placed very far 
bark on the head. 











O, fear ye nothing, good Sir Earl, 

Our arms are sound and tough ; 
Ere sunset comes, each foreign churl 

Shall vow he's had enough : 
Of England's fearless sons we come, 

Free as the ocean's wave ; 
The path of honour is our home, 

'Tis conquest, or the grave." 

The noble individual whose name we have written above, 
owes his fame and honours solely to his personal exertions, 
and is a bright example of the force of merit. He is one of 
those dauntless heroes to whom England stands so deeply in- 
debted for their exertions during a long and harrassing war, 
■when the interests of Great Britain were materially injured by 
the most daring and persevering of foes, beneath whose com- 
bined force our country must have fallen, had it not been for 
the extraordinary spirit, talent, and heroism displayed by the 
officers entrusted with the arduous task of combatting with the 
enemy, and by whom that task was most gallantly performed. 
Lord Beresford is connected with the Waterford family, 
and of course, therefore, with the noble De la Poers, of the 
ancestor of whom. Sir Roger de la Poer, who accompanied 
Strongbow, Earl of Pembroke into Ireland, Cambrensis 
writes, *' It might be said without offence, there was not a man 
who did more valiant acts than Roger de la Poer, who, 
although he was young and beardless, yet he showed himself a 
lusty, valiant, and courageous gentleman, and who grew into 
such good credit that he had the government of the country 
about Leighlin, as also in Ossory, where he was traitorously 
killed ; on whose slaughter a conspiracy was formed among the 
Irish to destroy the English, and many castles were de- 

The father of Lord Beresford was George de la Poer, 
first Marquess of Waterford, but not by his Marchioness. 
At his entrance into life the wide world was before him, and 
all the objects of Ms ambition were to be carved out by his 
sword. He was introduced into the profession of arms, and at 
that period opportunities for the manifestation of talent, spirit, 
and heroism were frequently afforded to the young aspirants 
for fame ; of these the subject of these biographical remarks 
did not fail to avail himself, and not unfrequently was he to be 
seen in the thickest of the fight, daring death at the cannon's 
mouth, and leading on his soldiers to conquest and glory. He 
served in the Peninsula with the highest credit, and distinguished 
Vol, XVI. 

himself in several important actions, more particularly in that 
of Albuera. 

It seemed as if new hearts were stirred, 

When by each the Beresford call was heard ; 

More fiercely then the battle raged ; 

The English chivalry engaged- 
Some two, some three, some four : 

With desperate energy all fought. 

And mighty deeds of arms were wrought, 

As fresh foes to the charge were brought 
Against the British corps. 

Charge after charge the Frenchmen led, 

And left a towering pile of dead ; 

Many a chieftain's banner fell. 

Never its blazoned folds to swell 

Again, all proudly in the gale ; 

Left for the foeman's hand to trail 

In dust and gore along the earth ; 

And many a youth of noble birth. 

Whose soul as glanced the morning sun 

His polished shield and casque upon, 

Was mounting with chivalric fire, 

And thought ere night to tell his sire 

What maiden feats had graced his arms. 

Lay cold, and safe from war's alarms ! 

Victory rested upon the Englishman's helm ; the battles— and 
many and well fought ones they were— terminated in the 
triumph of the British arms ; and the proud insulting foes 
stricken to the earth and humbled, our gallant heroes returned 
to their homes rejoicing. Among these distinguished men was 
the brave Beresford, who immediately obtained the reward 
to which his services well entitled him. On the 17th of May 
1814, he was created Baron Beresford of Albuera, and 
Dungarvon, in the county of Waterford, and in the same year 
an act of Pariiament was passed granting an annuity to Lord 
Beresford and his two immediate successors in the Barony. 
On the 24th of March 1825, his Lordship was advanced a step 
in the Peera2;e, he being then created Viscount Beresford. 
During the Peninsular war his Lordship obtained the following 
foreign titles, Duke of Elvas, Marquis of Campo Major, and 
Count of Francoso, in Portugal. His Lordship has also had 
the following additional honours bestowed upon him at various 
times, G.C.B ; K.T.S. ; K.F.M. ; and K.F. 

For several years his Lordship remained a bachelor ; but, 
eventually, tired of the monotony of a bachelor's life ; he 
offered his hand to Mrs. Hope, the widow of the distin- 
guished scholar, and ornament of society. Mrs. Hope, was a 
lady of exquisitely refined taste, and whose house, which 
contained one of the richest collections in England, was the 
constant resort of the highest order of fashionable society. 
This Lady attracted the attention of the gallant bachelor, who 
then begun to think with the poet, that the world might as well 
be without a sun as a man without a wife. 

O, woman 1 what were life, but one 

Dai-k hout of withering toil and care, 


thl: \v()iii>i> or fashion. 

Dill not tLy smile, the faded tuu 

Of hope relume and gleam upon 
The else unblebsed air. 

Some heavenly wanderer might rove 

At times across our joyless sphere, 

Hut, O ! the heart whose tremblings prove 

How ample is its weight of love. 
Would not be here. 
Lord Berksford led Mrs. Hopb to the hymeneal altar, and 
we doubt whether any reward which he has obtained for his 
gallant services in the field, hn^ been productive to him of 
greater happiness than the society of this amiable Lady. 

The arras of Lord Heresford are as follows, ar., semee of 
cross crosslcts fitcht-e, sa., three fleurs-de-lis of the last, all 
within a bordure, wavy pean. Crest, out of a mural crown, or., 
a dragon's head, per fcsse, wavy, az., and gu., pierced in the 
neck with a broken tilting lance in hand, or., and holding the 
upper part of the spear in the mouth. Supporters : Two angels 
ppr., winged and crined, or., vested, ar., each holding in the 
exterior hand, a sword of the last, pomels and hilts of gold, and 
charged on tlic breast with three fleurs-de-lis, az. Motto: 
" ,V»/ nisi cruce." The scat of Viscount Beresford is at 
Duugarvon, in Irclaud. 


No. I. 
We part, and must live separate 

From each others gaze ; 
Yet fancy will thy form create, 

To cheer me iu life's troubled maze. 

Adversity would only fan 

My love ; and though we part, 

Nor time nor distance can 

Kfface thee from my heart. 

No. II. 
The stream of time. 

In its course nins free, 
'Till it falls on tlie breast 

Of eternity's sea. 

True friendship and love 

Are pure and sublime ; 
And glide on till death, 

Like the stream of time. 

No. III. 
1 will not say " Forget me not;" 

I know that thou can'st ne'er 
Forget me, or each lovely spot 

Where we have ofttimes breath'dapray'r 
Of hope unto our God ; 

For absence will still more endear 
The paths we have together trod , 

When none but God was near. 

By tht Author of The Puritan's Daughter. 

The Maid was true, but the Knight 



R. T. MoaRiKON. 

In one of the most beautiful vallies of the county of West- 
moreland, was situated the quiet, neat, and unpretending man- 
sion of the rector of Hartlebury, Dr. Trevor ; the living was 
not a rich one, but with some little assistance derived from the 
exercise of his talents, it enabled him to vie, iu many respects, 
^^ith his more wealthy neighbours. 

His sole care had been for some time bestowed upon his only 
child, Marion ; all that remained to remind him of one he had 
once most fondly loved, but whom the withering hand of death 
had torn from him a few short years after their marriage. 
Marion Trevor was, at the time of the opening of our story, 
nearly in her sixteenth year, rather inclining to be tall, of fair 
complexion, with regular features, and her hair — which hung 
in luxuriant profusion down her neck — was of the richest 
auburn. Thou wilt say, gentle reader, we have drawn a picture 
of woman's beauty, such as the romancers of old were wont to 
do ; the fairest points of woman in all her loveliness, strewed 
with no unsparing hand upon the page. It may be so ; and yet 
do we paint from nature ; the form in miniature is now before 
us, and the pen falls merely as the limners pencil, the faint 
tracings scarcely shadowing forth the original. 

It has been said, a father is ill adapted to form a daughter's 
mind, and that the education bestowed suits not the taste or 
habits. This is a libel upon woman, for it would argue that 
they are too frivolous to bear the impressions grafted upon 
them by a master mind. If we look back upon the page of 
history, we shall find some of the brightest ornaments who 
have graced the sex have had some learned man as their 
instructor ; and even in private life we must remark that in 
many — many instances, women so educated have given proofs 
of intelligence and strength of mind, which may be ascribed to 
their earliest studies being superintended by a father. 

Dr. Trevor saw, with proud satisfaction, his daughter's 
growing beauties, and though at times a half suppressed sigh 
would escape him, it was at the recollection that just such a 
one had her mother been, ere her untimely fate had snatched 
her from him ; and deep and fervent were his prayers that his 
child might be spared. He had also some misgivings as to an 
application that had been made to him by his old college friend 
and patron, Lord Allandale, that he should receive his son for 
a few months, in order to finish his education, which he had 
almost completed at Oxford, but illness requiring a change of 
air, the county of Westmoreland had been recommended. 
Under other circumstances Dr. Trevor might have refused, but 
the peculiar nature of the case, and the esteem he possessed 
for his friend, induced him to comply, and the honourable 
Henry Perceval became an inmate of Hartlebury. His age was 
about twenty, his personal appearance highly prepossessing, 
though his dark complexion and darker hair gave him much the 
character of a native of a southern clime, attributable to one of 
his ancestors having married into a Spanish family of high rank, 
and the union was frequently to be traced in after generations, 
by the descendants bearing so strongly the dark complexion and 
cast of features of the Lady Allandale, in whose veins the Spanish 
blond had flowed ; and still more singular was the striking 
resemblance borne by many of the Allandale* to a portrait 



painted hy an unknown Spanish artist, in her youth, the likeness 
of which was said to be very great. 

The air of Westmoreland soon worked a change in Henry 
Perceval, he daily gained strength, and the kind attentions of 
Dr. Trevor were duly appreciated by his pupil ; he felt himself 
more at ease than in the stately mansion of his father : the 
beauties of the county were not without their attraction, nor 
did these lose anything in his estimation in that they were 
pointed out to him by Marion Trevor. 

At the end of some mouths he received a letter from Lord 
AUandale, saying, that as he found from Dr. Trevor he had so 
much improved in health, he intended him to spend some tima 
on the continent. To this letter Henry Perceval replied, that 
of late he had not been so well as he could desire, and that 
he wished to remain a few months longer in Westmoreland, to 
perfectly establish his health. To this his father acceded, and 
the ensuing summer was fixed as the period of his departure 
for the continent. 

The time passed quickly away, for, as our readers have ere 
this guessed, Henry Perceval was deeply — passionately in love 
■with Marion Trevor, and that love was returned with all the 
■warmth and ardour of a woman's first, best, and purest love. 
Woman in her first love invests the object of her adoration with 
a feeling almost approaching to divinity. With man it is not 
the same ; there is not that purity of feeling — that abstract 
devotion, raising it to something higher than the feelings of 
common life. With woman it is like a vision, an unreal 
shadow, never — never to be converted to reality, and like a 
dream it vanishes, having only a resting place in the imagina- 
tion, where it was created. Man exists not in nature as woman 
in her love paints him ; the bright-tinged feelings of her fancy 
forms a being that has no existence elsewhere. 

The evening previous to the appointed departure had arrived. 
Henry Perceval and Marion were alone in the drawing-room, 
the windows of which looked for miles over the valley, and the 
deep red sun was casting its crimson glow on all around. The 
time and place seemed well attuned for lovers' vows ; and long 
ere this had Henry Perceval told the story of his love. 

" You will," said Marion, " in your travels, see scenes more 
beautiful than this, and you may then think our native scenery 
tame by comparison." 

" Scenery, however beautiful, becomes fixed in our memory 
by association with other objects : the fairest the earth could 
produce would lose its attractions for one, wanting yourself, 
Marion, to grace the foreground." 

" I shall often watch the sun setting upon these hills, and 
think, Henry, where you may then be ; perhaps, too, you may 
then think of me, and my prayers (a deep sigh almost rendering 
the words inaudible) will ever be to preserve you." 

*' Marion, there is for me no danger except in your imagination ; 
and wheresoever I may be, you will ever be the first and fore- 
most in my thoughts — but Marion," and as he spoke a cloud 
came over his brow such as she had never seen before, 
and she felt as he caught her hand a slight convulsive tremor, 
♦'there is some strange fatality about our race, that all we love 
seems to turn against us, some wild story of my Spanish an- 
cestress is said to be the cause ; something wild and fearful 
of her marriage ; it is said she married against her heart's con- 
sent, her affections being bestowed upon some one of lordly 
birth, but too poor to gain her parents consent, and the marriage 
with; Lord AUandale was reported to have been almost by 
force ; after the Priest had pronounced the benison (for they 
were Catholics th,en) a figure who had watched the proceedings 

I advanced towards the bride, and in a whisper loud enough for 

j all around to hear, said ' Mark me false woman — nor thee, nor 

\ thine shall ever know requited love that leads to happiness. 

Even thy decendants shall be cursed, for before the altar I 

pray to heaven to curse them ; I pray they may love as 1 have 

done, and then bring a curse on all, and leave their hearts a 

sad desolate blank ,' the man would have proceeded, 

but at the sound of his voice the bride had turned towards 
him, faintly exclaiming, ' Mercy, mercy, spare me this !' and, 
overcome by her feelings she fell against the bridegroom, who, 
unprepared, allowed her to fall to the ground, her forehead 
struck against the stone steps of the altar, and her bridal dress 
was covered with blood ; in the confusion that ensued the 
author of the mischief escaped. 

" It was a fearful marriage," said Marion, the growing 
darkness of the evening adding gloum to the story, " it makes 
one quite shudder." 

" The curse was on our race, and a sad one it has been. We 
never reared a thing that came to love, but in time it turned 
against us ; did I rear even a dog it woidd in time tear the 
hand that fed it ; all things that show affection have turned to 
hate us ; all — but the charm must break in time. Marion, you 
will not live to hate me ?" 

" Henry, I have loved once, and only once can my heart feel 
as it does for you ; what years may bring forth heaven only 
knows, they will not, however, find me wavering in my faith. 

" I believe you, Marion," said Henry, and putting his hand 
to his breast, he tore asunder a black riband that fastened 
something round his neck. "W'earthis," said he, giving her 
a curiously worked gold cross, " it was a gift to my Spanish 
ancestress, by whom given can only be conjectured ; wear it 
for my sake, think of her who first wore it, and when you turn 
to hate, return it to me." 

" I accept the pledge," said Marion, smiling, " when I turn 
from love to hate, you shall receive your token, and that will be 
when " 

The sentence remained unfinished by the entrance of Dr. Trevor 
into the room, and no further opportunity offered of resuming 
the conversation. On the following morning Henry Perceval 
left for the seat of Lord AUandale, having previously to his 
departure reiterated his vows to Marion. We may here briefly 
state that a few days after his arrival at his father's he left for 
Spain, on a visit to the family with whom the Allandales had 

Marion soon after lost her best and truest friend by the 
sudden death of her father, and it was with deep regret she 
found herself obliged to quit the scenes of her youth which 
were hallowed in her memory by so many happy hours. She 
was, however, by no means thrown upon the world ; a distant 
relation of her mother's dying without issue had left her all 
he possessed, which afforded her ample means of doing as she 
wished ; but soon after the last obsequies had been performed to 
her father's remains, she had quitted Westmoreland, and gone 
none knew whither. 

Our story now runs over a space of more than three years, 
and the scene has shifted to the banks of the Guadalquiver, to 
Andalusia's capital, the princely Seville, of which the Spanish 
proverb sayeth, Quen nohavisto Sevilla,no havisf07naraviila,"'bnt 
Seville, like most other Spanish cities, has been for years 
declining. But of that no more. We speak not of the times 
of Philip II., when Spain was in its glory, when the Indies, 
Italy, Portugal, and the Netherlands, were subject to ita sway,. 



but of some sixty years ago, when Spain, though declining, 
wa'< still a rich aniJ powerful country. 

In one of the nio^t inai;uiticent hotels in all Seville, and in a 
room, the utassive splendour and hixurinnt decorations of which 
told plainly that it had belonged to one of the wealthiest and 
iuo:9t noble of Spanish families, was seated Henry Perceval, 
now the head of the AUandale family ; he was busied looking 
over some papers, dictating occasionally to a ."ccrctary, seated 
at some little distance from him. The occupation, however, in 
which he was busied seemed irksome to him, and rising from 
his scat he exclaimed, " We will finish this tinother time — let 
us tiira to something more welcome." The secretary bowed 
obedience, and approached bis lord:jhip to receive his further 

A casual observer could not fail to remark the appearance 
of the secretary. He was a very young man of rather slight 
irake, and somewliut under the middle height ; his looks told 
plainly, also, that he was foreign to the country, that he was, 
in fact, an Englishman. A deep melancholy seemed to ha\e 
fixed its gloom upon his countenance, since he was rarely, if 
ever, seen to smile, and scarce any thing had power to draw 
him from the solitude of his chamber. 

The circumstance of his first entering Lord Allandale's 
service was somewhat romantic. His lordship was returning 
late from a party where the play had been high, and his lord- 
ship was a considerable winner : little heeding the hour, and 
thinking over some trifling circumstances of the evening, he 
■was much surprised at hearing some one exclaim in his own 
language, " For God's sake, my Lord, protect yourself !" He 
turned just in time to parry a thrust that would doubtless have 
proved fatal. His antagonists, two in number, though foiled, 
yxere not so easily to l)e beaten off, and Lord AUandale, although 
he was practised with the s\v(;r,l, had nearly his equal ; his coun- 
tryman endeavoured to assist him, but being a stripling and 
unarmed, he was of little aid in the contest. A lucky thrust, 
however, brought one of the assailants to the ground, and the 
noise of approaching footsteps made the other seek liis safety 
in flight. 

The person who was wounded, to Lord Allandale's great 
surprise, proved to be one of those, from whom he had just won 
the money, a younger branch of one of the first families in 
Seville. The wounded man writhed in agony r.s he perceived 
himself to be recognized, and Lord AUandale merely re- 
marked to him in scorn, that " he had thought the noble cavaliers 
of Spain were used to forewarn a man before they drew upon 
him, and not like a hired assassin strike in the dark. However, 
sir, you are safe. The contempt I feel for your conduct will 
make ire silent ; you are free, sir." 

His countryman, however, recjuircd his immediate attention, 
for he was evidently wounded, as the ptilvr of his countenance 
and some spots ol blood plainly indicated, and assistance being 
procured he was conveyed to his lordship's house, but nothing 
could induce him to allow a surgeon to visit him ; he persisted 
in denying he was wounded, and the only desire he had was to 
be allowed a few days' quiet, when his health, which had been 
for some time declining, would, he hoped, be restored. 

It was some weeks before he recovered, and Lord Allandale's 
convic'.ion was still firm that he had been woundtd, though the 
reason of his so pertinaciously denying it was more than he 
could conjecture. 

The youth's story was soon told, he was an orphan, almost 
without friends, had been recommended to a house in Seville, as 
corrrspouding English eUrk, hut fouud on his arrival that the 

house had failed, and was then remaining in Spain until either 
he could return to his own country, or circumstances should 
throw something in his way. Lord 'AUandale ofi'ercd him 
the situation of secretary to himself, which the youth gladly 

Charles Herbert, as the secretary was named, had been but 
a short time enabled to leave his chamber, so that he had not 
hitherto been much employed by his lordship ; he knew, how- 
ever, severi'.l circumstances respecting his lordship, of which the 
world made no secret, namely, that he was deeply enamoured 
of some Spanish lady, whom he intended to marry, and that to 
please her and her connections be inUnded to eiabraee the 
Catholic faith, but both the circumstances were said to prey 
deeply on his mind, though the infatuation of beauty still lurej 
him on, and left him without the power of retracing his steps. 

" Herbert," said his lordship, " 1 will get you to carry this 
letter to the Senora Inez, you will then see one of the loveliest 
of women, a paragon of beauty." 

The secretary took the letter in silence. " What think you, 
resumed his lordship, of the Spanish women ? Are they not most 
beautiful ."' 

The secretary replied, " My lord, to mc my own country- 
women are fairer than all others." 

"Yes, yes," said his lordship, hesitating, "but they are 
cold — heartless ; no warmth— no feeling " 

" My lord," .said the secretary boUUy ;" you wrong them, as 
an Englishman should not ; they are true to their faith ; it is the 
wrongs they suffer from men, make them what they seem ; a 
woman v.hcse heart is broken by an ill-requited affection may 
suffer in silence, but she feels as much, aye, and moie than 
tho-e who are loudest in the expression of their passion. You 
do not know a woman's heart — it is not what you conceive it, 
but men are easier led by words than actions.'' 

His lordship remained for a moment in thought; the secre- 
tary's speech had evidently struck a chord that jarred deeply in 
his heart ; he tried, however, to efface the unwelcome monitor 
that was rising in his breast, and forcing a smile, replied, "You 
have been in love, Charles, that you speak so feelingly." 

" I have, my lord !" 

" Was the object of your choice handsome." 

" A lover always fancies the object of hie clitrlc* ij beautiful 
beyond all others !" 

" And was she true." 

The secretary answered not ! 

" She was false then." 

"My lord, I loved. I say not that she waa falsa or trie. 
I only say I loved, and fancied I was loved again ; the minor 
knows not the value of the ore until he tries the vein ; it may 
be deep and rich, or it may lay lightly on the surface. 

" I think you have been disappointed ; and yet you speak la 
glowing terms of woman.'' 
i " My lord, I spenk as I feel. I may have erred and wrecked 
1 my happiness in life, for that I feel is gone, alas '. for ever, but 
' why throw on others the fault that was my own. Your lord- 
I ship may not understand my feelings. I will not obtrude them 
I upon you. Your Lordship has never loved an Englishwoman, 
! and can therefore know them but little." 

Lord iMlandalc did not answer, but pressed his hand deeply 
on his brow. 

" Your lordship is not well .'" 

" I am a villain. I feel and know it ! — Oh God ! what ia the 
infatuation thjit leads me on, step by step ? 'Tis like the yawning 



gulf of a precipice, whose jaws only gape for my destruction. 
And yet I cannot fly. Leave me ; 1 wish to be alone." 

" My Lord," the Secretary meekly replied, " shall I wait an 
answer to the letter" 

" An answer— an answer ; oh, I remember— no— stay— give 
me the letter," and snatching it hastily from the Secretary, he 
tore it in pieces. " I know not what I am about. —I am ill at 
ease, leave me now, Ciiarles. I shall be calmer presently." 

As the Secretary was leaving the room, he turned to ask if 
there were any letters for England, as the post was just leaving.' 

" None." 

The Secretarystilllingci-ed.hopinsforanother answer, bu>. none 
came, and as he left the room, an air of deep sorrow and dejec- j 
tion was visible on his countenance. 

In the evening the Lord Ailandale paid a visit to the Lady | 
Inez, but that visit was not a satisfactory one ; the foul fiend of , 
jealousy had taken hold of his heart, and he had seen and , 
heard much that tended to confirm his suspicions and excite 
feelings far akin from those tender ones that should be the fore- 
runner of matrimony. 

It was in this gloomy disposition that he returned late to his 
princely hotel ; his feelings deeply tinctured with remorse for 
his conduct towards Marion Trevor. As he entered the hotel 
he was informed that his Secretary was dangerouslyill,andwished 
most anxiously to see him. He hurried at once to his chamber, 
■which he then entered for the first time. 

The Secretary motioned that those who were present should 
leave the room, leaving him alone with Lord Ailandale. The 
night was far advanced, and the moon shed its soft pure light 
through the gothic casement with unusual brightness, falling on 
the invalid's bed almost like a mid-day sun. His Lordship 
took his seat by the bed-side of the Secretary, and taking his 
hand within his own, said — 

" My poor boy, you seem ill, what has happened to you ?" 
The Secretary withdrew his hand quickly, but not before 
Lord Ailandale had remarked it was exquisitely delicate, and 
beautifully formed. 

" My Lord," said the Secretary, " that which has happened 
to me has oft times happened ere now, and will again. I have 
loved and been deceived ; it is a story often told, and yet until 
we feel the bitter desolation of heart-broken despair, we know 
not how much we can suffer." 

"You are unhappy! Be not dispirited; better times may 
come ; hope that the bright and sunny side may turn to your 
view ; the gloomy shadows you are raising are but the offspring 
of some sudden illness !" 

" My Lord, for me there is no bright and sunny side. My 
hour is fast approaching ; the subtle poison that is working in 
my veins leaves me not long to live ; nor would I do so ; — my 
own hand has done the deed, and may Heaven forgive me, for 
it but knows what it is to live as I have done." As the last 
■words were spoken, the Secretary with much difficulty raised 
himself in the bed, and throwing aside the dark hair that Lord 
Ailandale had always hitherto seen, allowed him to observe 
that it was false, whilst the real hair was rich auburn. " Do 
you not recognize me ? or am I so changed that none will 
know me ?" 

" What do I see ?— can it be possible, or do my eyes 
deceive me? Can it be Marion Trevor, and here ? What does it 
mean? Here is some fearful mystery I cannot explain." 

" The meaning is soon told ; but I fear me I have not 
strength to do it ; my brain is on fire, and my veins seem as 

though they would burst with each convulsive throb; the 

poison is fast working its way, and " 

" Nay. I will fly for help ! Some remedy may be found ! It 

cannot be too late !" ,,,.,. ,-i.i.i 

" My Lord, I do command your stay ; 1 have but little 
now to tell ; in a few moments it may be too late ! It was 
some three years since you parted from me in my father's 
house ; our vows of love and constancy being interchanged ; 
how you have kept those vows your own heart can best tell. I 
need not say the reports concer^iing you I did not and would 
not believe ; and being alone, the world before me, and mistress 
of my actions, I determined to see and judge for myself; the 
disguifeelhave assumed, you know; but not how hour by hour and 
day by day I have followed your footsteps ; you do not know what 
I endured to be near you ; I will not repeat, suffice it that I 
found myself forgotten, and another holding that place I alone 
had hoped for ; but it matters not now. I have not sought 
you to mention these circumstances, but you may remember 
that you gave me this cross, bidding me when I loved you no 
lon"-er, to return it to you. I have worn it ever since, because 
I have loved you until now ; but I will wear it no longer, it 
should belong to another— take it— take it from my sight— it 
was an ill-omened gift. I have been unhappy from the time 
that first I wore it ;" saying which she thrust it into his 
hands. " I feel happier now." 

" Oh Marion, forgive me ;— forget the past ;— 1 will be 
yours and only yours - 1 have erred— I know and feel it now ; 
look upon me and say that you forgive me. Will you not 
forgive me dearest Marion ?" 

Marion spoke but feebly, for her strength was fast leaving 
her " Henry Perceval— there is my hand— I do forgive you ; 
but* had I years to live in lieu of the few brief moments that 
remain to me, I would not be yours ; to be your wife in name, 
but not in your affections. No, no, I would not be your 

""''"'on this cross, and before Heaven, I swear, Marion, never 
to call any other by the name of wife." 

The vow had come too late, for she heard it not ; a deep 
sleep seemed to have come suddenly over her ; a sleep not like 
death's semblance, but death itself ; her features were so placed, 
since no struggle marked the transition from sleep to death, 
that it was some time ere Lord Ailandale became convinced 
that Marion Trevor was no more. He looked for some time 
on the still beauteous form before him, in silent contemplation. 
After a few moments, however, he exclaimed— 

" And this have I done '.—The only being that ever loved me 
is my victim. Oh God ! the curse of my race is on me ; that 
all who come to love, turn— no— no— she did not hate me. 
Poor Marion ! You could not hate— it was not in your nature ; 
and have I wronged thee for one v,ho cares not for me. I have 
been in a dream— a hideous dream ; but the sad reality is 
before me. Oh Marion, Marion ; what you felt do I now 
feel ; but it is too late. You cannot hear me now, but here I 
swear that none shall ever hold thy place. I will hve and die 
a solitary man, and never more court affection. My love, alas 
an untrue one, will rest in your remembrance, and though 
living I have wronged you, such atonement as man can make 
wiU I make, by steeling my heart for ever from woman s love 
or friendship. 

Our story is almost told ; Lord Ailandale' s marriage w-as 
broken off with the Lady Inez, and he returned to Eng and a 
sad and melancholy man, estranging himself from the world and 



iu amu>rinriit», \\\Uig constantly at the ^f»l of hii ancestors 
in the ftrictest »ccI'i$:oQ ; true to his vows he died unmarried. 
The title aad poisession* pa^Ksim? to a distant branch of the 
family, the curse is said to have ended with him, since it is no 
looker conaiderrd that to love an Allandalc is the forerunner 
of tome dire coiaiuiiy. 


Youne ladies ! to yon 1 address 
K^marks from experience made ; 
With candour you hear me confess 
I am proud to be called an Old Maid. 
Then, make up your niiuds not to wed, 
'Tis a step you can nevtr recail, 
The be>t of the sex, it is said, 
Are the greatest deceivers of all. 

A friend of mine married a Count, 

NMth beautiful curly black hair, 

His mustachios were quite comme il/aut. 

His whiskers were quite de bon h-air ; 

But alas '. she discovered at night 

He retted his wig on a block, 

And the blockhead he looked such a fright. 

That she never recovered the tho^k. 

Mis* Twigg, with ten thousand a-year, 
Who married Lord Tom of the Guards 
He took half her cash to pay bills, 
And lost the remainder at cards ; 
He then sent her home to her friend*. 
And charged her to lead a new life. 
To think not of worldly concenu, 
Which soon put an end to hi* wife. 

Ellen Brown loved a man with Cne teeth 
So even, so smooth, and so white. 
Bat alas 1 there were not more than two 
To which nature gave him a right ; 
Too late the fair Ellen discerned 
That this worthy and excellent sage 
Had borrowed a whole set of bone, 
To conceal the defects of hia age. 

Miss Prudence, who married a saint. 
Her sanctified hopes to increase. 
But ala.* : at me ena oi a year, 
He ran off to France with her niece. 
Miss Josephine married a Lord, 
For the sake of a peaceable home, 
But there is a report gone abroad. 
Of a wife and six infants at Rome. 

'Tis a great consolation to me. 

To feel that all danger is o'er, 

I've passed through life single and free. 

And my age is approaching three-score ! 

I shall make up my mind not to wed, 

'Tis a step I can nr»er recal. 

The best of the sex, it is said. 

Are the greatest tormenters of aU : 




Sweet heart, could 1 buy thee. 

With gold or its worth ; 
I would not deny thee. 

The wealth of the earth. Goethb. 

Love's gift's wax poor, when lovers prove unkind." 


" Well ! I never saw such a splendid collection of jewellery 
presented to a lover!" the Dowager Lady Clackfusson, a^ 
she gazfd upon the c.isket of her pretty young daughter, 
Clarissa, who had become very much enamoured of a pale 
mvistachioed, foreign nobleman, the Count Fanfaron, an accom- 
plished waltzer, who had turned the heads of a multitude of 
young ladies by his surpassing •' poetry of motion," which had 
opened to him the doors of all the fashionable houses in London. 
He had obtained an introduction to one of the ladies-patron- 
esses, and the consequences were constant subscriptions to 
King Street, St. James's. How he obtained the introduction 
is a different thing. Btt it is suflScient to know that he did 
get introduced, and that the introduction nad all tae desired 
effect. There are equally extraordinary things happening every 

Well, Clarissa fancied that she loved the Count ; and there 
■was no disputing the point that the Count loved Clarissa, or at 
any rate that he was sincere in his desire to make her the " sole 
partner and sole part of all his joys," — in other words, to lead 
her to the hymeneal altar, which simply means, to make her his 

Now, Clarissa thought it would be a very exceUent match, 
and so did her estimable parent, the venerable Dowager Lady 
Clackfusson, as worthy a creature as ever lived ; so kind, so 
generous, so charitable, so credulous ! She would never believe 
any body dishonest till she found them to be so ; she subscribed 
to all charitable institutions and mendicity societies, took 
servants from refuges for reformed criminals, and had the 
satisfaction of knowing that her own nature was good, although 
she frequently had occasion to deplore the loss of her jewels 
and plate. 

Clarissa was a model in miniature of her mamma ; she had a 
little more sense than she had been bom with, but so very 
little, that although it would not have been perjury to swear to 
the fact, the amount of increased wisdom was so trifling, that 
we question whether we might not, with it, beat the ingenious 
writer of Homer's Odessy, who endeavoured to put his work 
into a nutshell. However, Clarissa was a pretty little girl, with 
a profusion of nice flaxen hair ; her eyes were blue, and her 
cheeks were of delicate red ; to be sure there was no soul in her 
countenance, but there was a great deal of plain English 

Mother and daughter were both amazingly taken with their 
new acquaintance, the Count Fanfaron, and the presents 
which he made her were absolutely astonishing. His heart 
bled rubies, and his eyes dropt pearis. " What a magnificent 
chain!" exclaimed the Dowager, holding up a thick matted 
piece of work, of great splendour ; "and what charming 
pearls I" turning over a necklace — " and what sumptuous 
rings !" Indeed, it is doubtful whether the Dowager did not 
wish herself some score of years younger, that she might rival 
the pretty Clarissa in the affections of the foreign Count. 

The Dowager's son, the young Sir Roger Clackfusson, had 




not so higli an opinion of the foreigner's merits, the latter had 
endeavoured to persuade the baronet to play with him at games 
which Sir Roger knew were favourites with the sharpers at 
low gambling-houses, and though artfully enough the stranger 
enforced his arguments, the baronet withstood his solicitations, 
and suspected him ever aftcrwtirds. 

" My dear mother," he said one day to the Dowager, "be 
upon your guard with respect to that foreigner. I suspect him 
to be no better than he should be." 

" Sir Roger Clackfusson !" exclaimed the Dowager, bridling 
herself up, "I trust that I shall always consult the honour and 
dignity of the family." 

Sir Roger was a quiet young man, and therefore he said no 
more upon the subject; what he did will appear in tlie 

The wedding day was fixed. Sir Roger had endeavoured to 
prevail upon his sister to break off the match, but in vain ; the 
young lady had more than a little of the old lady in her, and 
following the dowager's example she treated her brother very 
disrespectfully ; told him that her fortune was at her own 
disposal ; and that she would marry her footman if she pleased. 
This both the ladies called spirit. 

Well, as we have said, the wedding day came ; the dowager 
was in full bloom, radiant as a peony, and Miss Clarissa all 
blushes and trepidation. The coaches were all at the door ; 
Clarissa could take no breakfast— she was earnestly solicited 
by the venerable dowager to insinuate but a small piece of the 
breast of a chicken between her lips, or a trifle of ham, but in 
vain ; her heart was beating too violently ; her thoughts were 
too much occupied upon the transformation that was about to 
take place in her state, and the ceremony at the altar in which 
she was to take so prominent a part. She could not eat, nor 
drink, nor speak. She was completely overcome by her feelings, 
and thought each hour an age. 

Eleven o'clock came : but where was the bridegroom .' En- 
quiry was made for the Count Fanfaron ; but, alas ! 

" No County Guy was there." 

A quarter past eleven, and the company had all arrived ; but 
still no Fanfaron ! Half-past eleven, and the bride elect went 
into hysterics ! 

Twelve o'clock came, and all the party were in a state of 
consternation, which, as the novel writers say, "may be more 
readily imagined than described." It was absolutely twelve 
o'clock, and there was no bridegroom ! 

Let any lady fancy herself at twelve o'clock on the day 
appointed for her wedding, and with no bridegroom present, nor 
any tidings of him to be obtained ; and that lady will then have 
some idea of the peculiar state of embarrasment Clarissa was 
in when she heard the French clock in the drawing room 
strike twelve, and no Fanfaron there ! 

The Dowager's anxiety was not less great. Poor dear old 
soul! she put forth such symptoms as made the company 
apprehensive of her expiring suddenly of spontaneous com- 

The ladies and gentlemen assembled thought it strange, 
exceedingly strange ; and then surveying the delicacies of the 
season that were spread upon the table, they a pity 
that justice should not be done to the worthy hostess's hospi- 
tality, and while poor dear Clarissa was in violent hysterics in 
her chamber, and the dear good Dowager was ever and anon 

popping her excited head out of window to see wliether Fan- 
faron was coming, the ladies and gentlemen assembled pledged 
each other, and made themselves better acquainted with the 
delicacies on the table. 

Presently a coach was heard to stop at the door, " Here is 
the bridegroom 1" exclaimed the whole of the party with one 
accord. " Here is the bridegroom ! Now we shall have the 
happy wedding !' 

Presently the room door opened, and in walked — not Fan- 
faron, but Sir Roger Clackfusson. He was in a very excited 
state. " Where is the Dowager ?" he exclaimed. 

" Here!'' replied that worthy lady, who had hurried down 
stairs, upon hearing the knock, believing, as the rest had done, 
that it was the bridegroom. 

" Well, Madam," exclaimed Sir Roger, " I suppose you are 
by this time convinced that there will be no wedding to-day." 

"No wedding!" responded the Dowager, " And why not, 

" Because the gaoler will not give the intended bridegroom 
up !" 

The goaler 1 cried the whole party, simultaneously. 

"Yes," said Sir Roger, with provoking calmness, "It is 
much to be regretted thnt :ny worthy parent did not make such 
inquiries as I felt it to be my duty to do, before she admitted a 
foreign rogue as a suitor to her daughter. 

" A rogue!'' cried the dowager. 

" A rngue .'" exclaimed the company in chorus. 

"A rof/iie.'" responded Sir Roger, " A common gambler. I 
last night caused the police to break into the den where he and his 
confederates were practising their tricks, and this morning the 
knaves were carried before the magistrates, and sent to jail in 
default of bail 1" 

" O !" cried the dowager, and went into a fit. 

She was soon restored, and the first words she uttered were, 
" What is become of my two thousand pounds !" 

Alas ! the dowager, moved by a representation of some mis- 
understanding between the Count and his banker, which pre- 
vented a remittance from arriving at a particular time, had lent 
the rogue two thousand pounds ! 

" But then, there are the jewels — the costly gems which 
the Count gave to Clarissa, " said the Dowager, after the 
first burst of grief had subsided. " There are the gold chains, and 
the pearl necklaces, and the rubies and brilliants, and, at any 
rate, though not equivalent to my unfortunate two thousand 
pounds, they must be worth a considerable sum." 

" You had better take them to a jeweller, and ascertain the 
real value of them," said Sir Roger. 

The Dowager stept into Sir Roger's carriage with the baronet, 
and directions were given to proceed to their jeweller's in Bond 
Street, who having inspected the precious gems, pronounced 
them to be all deceptions, and not worth five pounds. 

" Madam !" exclaimed Sir Roger, " What do you think of 
your French Count, now?" 

" O, the villain !" was all that the phrensied Dowager could 
say ; and away she hurried to console the aflSicted Clarissa. 

Poor girl ! Her brothers perseverance had prevented her 
from becoming the prey of a mere adventurer, and though, na- 
turally enough, the little belle was furiously angry because she 
had lost a husband, she soon afterwards rejoiced, for then she 
had a worthy suitor, and eventually she became a happy wife. 
The Dowager never interfered in the match-making way 


TO N D , Ks«., 

0(1 liruiiii'j lii.ii it.'clare hix opinion (hut the writer would be 
fickle in lure .' 



You say in love thnt I shall chaufre, I will 

Wlieu orcuii yii-ld-i tho treasures np to man 1 
Ye* ! - whfn the f«rtli is on it.< axis still, 

Wheu of our livis \\c know the utmost siian '. 
Yes ! — when ti;e m-edle points unto the west, 

Anil whi'i! the sky luith lost its azure b'ue ; 
Yes ! — when this hnnJ hath sunk to silent rest, 

My heart shall change, — 'till then believe it true. 

O! ileem'st thou not " appearances deceive ?" 

That tears may iie amhush 'r.eath a smile ? 
Or that tlie heart whicli feels must deeply, leaves 

No sadden'd trace to mar (ray pleasure's wile ? 
Or that the breast whiih truly loves, will hide 

Its feelings from the (would-be numerous) few, 
Who'd list — affect to pity — turn aside. 

And, like thee, say, that it could not love true. 

Tho' nineteen summers scarce have pass'd me o'er. 

And I may seem a wayward, reckless girl ; 
Believe, I feel as much, perhaps e'en more. 

Than some whose features seldom wear a smile. 
Tho' doubted still by thee, a heart have I 

As faithful, and as fond, as e'er love knew; 
One that cuuht feel with that intensity. 

Which bursts its chords, yet leaves the heart most true. 

I know some maiden's hearts, which love — forget — 

And love with fervour for the second time ; — 
Apain deceived — another lulls regret ; 

Hut, then, their hearts are larger far than mine I 
For 1 could find but room for one, and he 

Would be the star to guide my whole life through. 
To bless or mar my wayward destiny ; 

And lead till death the heart he should find true. 

Then do not judge, — but let the coming time 

Mature love's flower, whose germ is in my heart; 
Which lies so deeply hid, whose tendrils twine 

So firmly round they form of life a part; 
And when it blooms, be thou then, near to note 

Its size — its strength — its changeless hue ; 
Its fadeless leaves— its firm unswerving stalk; 

See that it droops not —see that it is true. M aky. 

Translated from the German of Graf von Platen. 


Ne'er my friend drink drop by drop. 
But the passing moments drown ; 

Sipping, tasting, nevur stop; 
All joys with a bumper crown ! 

Nor undecided must thou stand 

'Twcen pleasure and regretful carr. 

When fortune offers you her hand, 
Seize it promptly, while its there ! 

Love, art thou waking or sleeping ? 

Shadows with morning should flee ; 
I^)ve, art thou smiling or weeping .' 

Open thy lattice to me. 
Sunlight each sorrow beguiling. 

Youth should be gentle and free, 
O ! when all nature is smiling, 

Wilt thou not smile upon me. — Bird. 

It was the bright summer time ; when the heart rejoices in the 
sunlight ; when every pleasure produces superior enjoyment ; and 
music has Divine power; and the eyesof light, and words of truth, 
and love which is imperishable, elevate the human soul, till it is im- 
paradised in bli^i'. Helinda was reclining \ipon a satin couch, 
idly regarding the playfulness of a Blenheim spaniel, the gift of 
Lord Mouutarlington, which had bereft the couch of one of the 
exquisitely delicate kid gloves, which Belinda had thrown upon 
it on the previous night, after her return from Lady Castle- 
ville's ball : and already possessed of all that woman's Inge- 
nuity could conceive a wish for, she was in a state of «i/iu» : 
she was very beautiful, and the world had told her so in all the 
varieties of poetry and prose, until she almost wished ihat 
some one would discover some imperfection in her loveliness, 
that they might censure, and so change the unvarying theme. 

She was young, rich, and beautiful ; yet she was unhappy. 
She was a heiress, and she delighted in expending her wealth 
in doing good ; yet she was unhappy. She had lovers, but she 
had heard and read so much of the ingratitude of man and the 
inconstancy and tyranny of husbands, that she resolved to live 
and die in what folks call single blessedness, but which Belinda 
found was solitary misery. 

She became a coquette, a flirt, a jilt ; she gave encourage- 
ment to all ; fanned the flame of their disquiet : had a smile for 
all, and honied words were constantly upon her ruby lips. She 
received all suitors that came, and never dismissed any ; she 
continued to hold them in soft captivity until their patience 
gave way, or their spirit could not brook the treatment they 
experienced, and then Belinda received their adieux with as 
bright an eye and as light a heart as when they came to kneel 
before her shrine. 

She had become tired of pleasures, and tired of lovers ; only 
three of the latter remained, however : the first of whom was 
Lord Mountarlington, a peer of pedigree, who traced his lineage 
up to the conquest ; who made overtures with a list of his 
ancestors, and believed there could be no greater recommenda- 
tion to the heart of youth and beauty than a magnificent gene- 
alogical tree. 

The second was Sir Alexander Fillagree, a youth of elegant 
pretensions, a slightly-formed gentleman, of unrivalled taste in 
matters of costume. He lisped, and seemed to be conscious of 
the pleasing effect of the imperfection, by the eternal smile 
which was upon his face, and which said, or seemed to say, 
" Am I not a fascinating creature?" 

The third was the second brother of a nobleman of high dis- 
tinction, but who, alas, inherited only the fortune of second 
brothers in general. His income was but moderate, and, 
therefore, he was placed in the professi(m of arms. He was a 
Captain in the Guards. His pretensions to Belinda's hand 
were small, and his humility was great ; he worshipped her with 
intense passion, but almost silently ; he felt that she was far 
above him, that his hopes were presumptuous, that he was 



encouraging a passion that would not be requited, but with that 
perseverance, even though despairing, which is a characteristic of 
true love, he continued to hover about the object of his heart's 
Idolatry, livingin the smiles of the ioved one, thoiighhe feltassured 
that like the painted moth wliich flutters in the flame until it 
is destroyed, his heart would perish in the brilliancy of his lady's 

It may be, that Belinda was reflecting upon the characters 
of those three lovers, on the eventful mornii)g in question, as 
she reclined on her couch, gazing upon the playful antics of her 
spaniel ; for she sighed deeply and frequently. And it must be 
confessed here, that although she had not the most remote idea 
of altering her state, yet she had a strong partiality for the third 
young gentleman. Captain Aigornon Waverley, and appreciated 
his merits, which she believed to be far — very far— superior to 
those of the other ci;udidates for her hand. 

As she was musing upon these things, a butterfly of sur- 
passing beauty flev>r through the open casement and alighted 
upon her hand. It appeared, like herself, to be overpowered 
with fatigue and fnnai, for when Belinaa sought to m.ake it a 
prisoner, the beautiful creature of the air merely fluttered its 
wings, coquettishly, and suffered itself to become the beauty's 

Belinda's first thought was to preserve this splendid creature ; 
but after a momenfs consideration, she felt how cruel it would 
be to imprison the butterfly of a moment, in the bright summer 
time, when it would languish and die for want of the flowers, 
and light and air in which its beauties were formed ; and after 
feasting her bright eyes on the splendour of its wings, she set 
the captive free. 

The buttertiy flew from the casement, and Belinda watched 
it coquetting with all the bright flowers in the garden beneath, 
now lost in the bosom of clustering roses, and again hidden in 
the deep bells of the golden lilies. At length it flew away to 
other scenes, and newer beauties, and Belinda saw it no more. 

Three months after this, Belinda was again reclining on her 
couch, but this time a letter was in her hand from Captain 
Waverley. Tears were upon her eyelids, which the contents of 
her humble lover's letter had produced there. He had written 
to say farewell for ever ! He had disclosed to her his true and 
constant passion ; he had written to her his burning thoughts, 
which he could no longer endure, and he resolved upon quitting 
her presence for ever. He had made arrangements for ex- 
changing into a regiment which was about to embark for the 
East Indies ; but, he finally said, that if she could requite his 
love, a word from her would detain him. 

Belinda was perplexed. She loved him ; but then, her pride 
opposed her love. She was a wealthy heiress ; he but an officer 
in the Guards. Had he been a man of wealth, she would have 
married him ; but his comparatively humble means were an un- 
surmountable obstacle ; and while the sincerity of his affection 
brought tears into her eyes, her ambition resolved to return no 
answer to his letter. 

Such were her thoughts when she sat looking out from the 
window upon the garden below, which had appeared so beautiful 
in the gay summer time, but which now presented very woeful 
and melancholy aspects, for it was a dull wet day at the end of 
October. The flowers tvere all gone, and the leaves seemed to 
have died, also, of grief. Suddenly something flew past the 
window ; presently it came again, and fell upon the balcony 

It was a dying butterfly. And Belinda, throwing open the 
easement, took the perishing wreck of beauty into her white 

hands. It seemed to her to be the same butterfly that had 
flown to her in the summer time— but how changed was its ap- 
pearance ! There were the traces of its beauty in its wings, 
which were now enfeebled, and dingy and dirty ; it no longer 
flew dashingly along, but, unable even to crawl, fell ixpon its 
side at every attempt to move. It had been an object of praise 
and admiration, but was now one for pity and commisseratiou. 

lielinda was affected at the sight, and she endeavoured to 
restore her old acquaintance, but her efforts were all in vain ; 
the sands of its life had run out ; the day of its existence was 
passing rapidly away. 

Suddenly the butterfly appeared to raise its head, its eyes 
seemed to be pervaded with intense fire, and a soft low musical 
voice fell upon Belinda's ear. 

" Gentle lady," did the butterfly seem to sny, " you see in 
my condition the result of coquetry and pride. You knew 
me in my days of youth and glory, when every inducement to 
pleasure was proffered to rne, and every rose upturned its 
beautiful lips to my kiss. Then I was a proud and happy 
thin"-. How delightedly I used to roam among the odorous 
flowers, and hear their whispered words of delight and praise ! 
But now^ you see me in my days of age and of sorrow ; when 
all the fair beinss who praised me are become indifferent or 
cruel ; and all the flowers, my old companions, are gone ; and 
the birds are far away, and the bees which made music in the 
summer sunshine, arc all in their happy homes. I have no 
far away place of rest — I have no home. I am alone— aged — 
friendless — desolate ! The song-birds in wintery weather mate 
together, and derive happiness from each other's consoling notes; 
but there is no companion for mc. I feel that I am dying, 
but there is no voice that will pity me, there is no eye that will 
shed tears over my remains ! Ah ! lady, in the days of our 
youth and beauty, when the world is praising us, and all who 
look upon us regard us with satisfaction and delight, we should 
make to ourselves some particular friends, who might cheer 
these our latest hours, and be true to us when all others are 
false, be kind when all others are cruel and ungrateful !" 

With these words, the butterfly fell upon its back, and 
Behnda saw that it was dead. 

It was past six o'clock when Belinda's maid thought it 
necessary to awaken her mistress, for she had engaged to dine 
with Lady Claremont at seven. For be it understood, gentle 
reader, the above was but a dream. 

Belinda, on a dismal October day, had gone into her boudoir, 
and for lack of other amusement, threw herself upon her couch, 
and fell asleep. The death of the butterfly was, of course, but 
a dream. 

" I -vvlll not dine with Lady Claremont," said Belinda, 
after a moment's consideration. Send to her ladyship— say 
that I am ill — say anything " 

"But, my lady 1 exclaimed Mrs. Thompson, "you know 
that Lord Mountarlington will be there, and ■ " 

" O, I detest Lord Mountarlington !" was Belinda's reply. 

" Well, but, my lady,'' remarked the talkative maid, "you 
know that it is highly probable that Sir Alexander Fillagree may 
be there, and " 

" Sir Alexander Fillagree is a coxcomb !" exclaimed Belinda 
pettishly, "and I wish never to hear his name mentioned in 
my presence." 

"Well, if ever !" continued Mrs. Thompson, whose 

tongue having been wound up for the evening, did not stop 

going, "Well, if ever ! But is your ladyship positive 

that you will not go to Lady Claremont's to-night ?" 



" Positive. Most ponitive," said Rrlinda, '• Hiid tu no mure 
words, or I shall be uiigry, Thompson." 

Mrs. Thompson saw by Belinda's eyes that it would be im- 
prutleut for her to say more ; so she put a check upon her 
mai'hinery, and slowly moxed out of the room. 

Helinda remained in deep tlioupht for many minutes ; she 
was evidently considerably aijitated, for m-tny tears fell from 
her Instrous eyes. It may be that the dream had no small 
portion of her thouphts. Certain it is that presently she de- 
sired that her writinir desk miL'ht be brought to her ; and 
within a few moments the following brief epistle wan penned. 

" Captain Alirernon Waverley need not po to India in search 
of happiness, if it is to be secured iu England by 


The result may be ctmceived. The dream of the butterfly 
had its effect; and Helinda took a companion for "wintry 
wenther," iu the shape of a husband ; and he was Captain 
\\a\iilev. .^MyNTOR. 



H>/ ifrs. (ii-iirge Sormiin. 

Oh ! 'tis here that the dreams long fostered afar, 

Of glory, of grandeur, of honour, of war ; ^ 

'Tis here they come o'er me, and present appear, 

As down on thy bosom I gaze — bright Gormere. 

From heights where the eagles of Rome were displayed ; 
From heights where the hones of her mighty are laid ; 
I look down on the surface of Gormere's soft lake. 
And hear the loud echoes around her awake. 

While the wild fowl, shrill screaming, flies over the wave, 
Scarce stooping an instant her feathers to lave ; 
While the tinny tribe, strikinjr from shore, disappear, 
I gaze on thee wond'ring, soft, stilly Gormere. 

I have stood on the brink, in mornincr's soft dew ; 
Around thee I've sailed, while the cold rough winds blew ; 
I have paced o'er thy green banks, when autumn leaves 

Were falling beside thee — sweet — lovely Gormere. 

When winter was easting his snows on thy breast, 

When with white silv'ry crests all thy mountains were 

When cold heavy storms our bright fire-sides endear, 
I have stood by thee — e'en then — pellucid Gormere, 

Soon, too soon, may I cpiit thee, and thy rorks drear and 

wild ; 
I may leave the lov'd ha\ints, where I roam'd as a child ; 
I may 150 ; but with fairer — more splendid .scenes near, 
I shall think on thee fondly — deep — noble Gormere. 

Gormere ! — Thou art shining with Eve's sunny ray. 
The elenms of the Bee-God now fast fade away ; 
Like them, I «hall leave thee ; like them, disappear : 
May I, like them, return to thee — placid Gormere I 


" Without the smile from lieauty won, 
O I what were life .'" 


Beauty, beauty ! say« a modern romancer, what floods of in- 
tense delight hast thou not poured in thy richness over my 
senses and my soul ! What deep rapture, calm from its very 
excess, have I not drunk as I have stood gazing on thee, enrapt 
— gazing on thee as an abstract thing! — as an embodying of 
the essence of all loveliness I — as the palpable presence of the 
beautiful to mental vision ! Poets have delighted in singing the 
praises of beauty, philosophers have admitted its poteucy. It 
has a majestic power. There is certainly no attraction equal to 
it. Y'ou may search Westminster Hall for a week, and yet not 
find a lawyer willing to take up an opposite argument, and those 
area descriptionof gentlemen who arc not remarkably scrupulous. 
Beauty is the grand mover — the pivot upon which the world 
turns. Beauty is the all-pervading feeling. It is universal. 
Every body can understand it, from the prince down to the 
peasant. Homage is paid to it in the salons of St. James's, 
and also in the clay cottage of the humblest rustic in the land. 
MyLadyDulcibella, who is turning the heads of all the beaux of 
fashion, is not more successful in her sphere, than is plain Mary 
Jones, in a mob-cap, among the swaius of her own little native 
vale. Your friend and you meet in St. James's Street. lie says, 
"Ah, Colonel ,1 had the indescribable pleasure of an intro- 
duction to Miss , to-day." What is your first ques- 
tion .' Nay, deny it not ; is it not, as sure as fate, " Is she 
fiue looking?" A regiment marches through your native town 
— Jove ! what a substantial scarlet fever ("o they bring along 
with them ; and mark their lyes ! Were the orders " eyes 
front," not a man should esc.".pe a court-martial for contempt 
of commands — for, behold, it is eyes left, or eyes right, or any 
where else where there may be ot'uer and fairer eyes to meet them 
— all, all are in search of beauty. A scapegrace in riding gently 
alongthe king's highway, or any other way, passes a female form 
— he makes a graceful t\vi-t upon his saddle, looks back. And 
why ? To sec whether the frirl be pretty, to be sure. Three 
such fellows ride through a village — what arc they looking for? 
Not for exercise — nor for mine host— no, but for his pretty 
daughters. We breakfast at an inn ; a somewhat delicate hand 
pops down a salt-crller right beneath our nose, just as we are 
decapitating our first egg — that hand seems an index to some- 
thing above, and we look uj) — why? to see whether our Gany- 
mede is pretty, to be sure. An actress appears upon our stage. 
She may be blessed with whatever talents you please, but that 
is not the question — is she lovely ? — is she beautiful ? Very 1 
is the reply. Oh ! we must go to see her ; and the unfortunate 
beauty is besieged by eyes and eye-glasses, which might well 
put her out of all countenance, had not the tyrant custom bra- 
zened her to the effrontery of such attacks. In short, at- 
tachment to beauty in our pictures, beauty in our bouses, beauty 
in our colours, beauty in our plants and flowers ; but, more 
than all, female beauty, seems to be a native and a British feel- 
ing, which grows with our growth, and strengthens with our 
strength, and doubtless more native, and more inherent with 
us, from the happy circumstance that so many of those lovely 
beings surround us in this our highly favoured and abundant 
land in female beauty— for who has not been charmed with the 
just and ingenuous confessions of all sojourners, of the superiority 
of British loveliness. 




OR, LOVKs' MEMORY. — (An Historical Talc.) 


Well — thou art gone, and I am left ; 
But ah 1 how cold and dark to me. 
This world of every charm bereft, 
Where all was beautiful with thee." 


The battle of Hastings decided the fate of Harold, the Saxon 
king of England. The Norman William conquered, after a 
desperate conflict, and " merry England" fell into the hands 
of its invaderj. Our purpose in reverting to this part of ourhistory 
is for the sake of illustrating the female character of the time, 
and shewing that even in that rude age it possessed all that 
beautiful and touching tenderness and truth, devotion and 
heroism, which may v.'ith justice be said to be inseperable from 
the female character. Edith, a Saxon of surpassing beauty, 
poetically called " the swan-necked," was beloved by king 
Harold ; tlieir affection had endured for a long time, and was 
only broken abruptly by the death of the monarch, in the fatal 
conflict to which we liave alluded. After the battle, the 
mothers, wives and children of the poor Saxons who had 
fallen, came to the conqueror's tents to solicit permission to 
bury the bodies of their relations, which had been stripped and 
plundered by the exulting Normans. That of Harold was 
humbly begged of the conqueror by two monks of the convent 
of Walthani. When they approached William the Norman, 
they offered him ten marks of gold for leave to carry away the 
remains of the monarch who had been their benefactor. This 
permission was granted them : but alas ! in the heap of 
slaughtered men, it a work of difficulty to discover the 
dead king. The monks went over heaps of slain, they examined 
each attentively, but the faces were so much disfigured by the 
wounds they had received in their struggle with the invaders, 
that they found it impossible to recognize the one lamented 
object of their search. Sorrowful and despairing, they retired 
from the field. But recollecting the attachment that had sub- 
sisted between Harold and the " swan-ntcked," they repaired 
to Edith, and besought her to accompany them to the field of 
slaughter, trusting that she would be able to recognize the 
features of the object of her tender affection. 

Edith gladly consented to perform this painful task, that she 
might if possible rescue the remains of the king from the heaps 
of slain ; she followed the monks to the field, " like Niobe, all 
tears," and steeling her heart against the frightful spectacle 
which there presented itself, she inspected the countenances of 
the slain : for a time their labours were unavailing ; but at 
length the " swan-necked " beauty recognized the body of her 
royal lover, and falling upon it in an agony of grief, embraced 
it franticly, and embalmed it with her tears. 

The monks removed the afflicted girl, and the melancholy 
object of their search thus rescued from the general mass, was 
conveyed by them to Waltham. 

This simple story is very affecting. The figure of the Saxon 
beauty bending over the remains of her royal lover, might 
serve as an elegant personification of Saxon England mourning 
over her fallen defenders, and her annihilated freedom. 

Pride of Ancestry. — The man who has nothing to boast 
of but his illustrious ancestors, is like a potatoe — the only good 
belonging to him is under ground. 

The sight of tlsis writing, my dear, 

Will astonish your little blue eyus ; 
The news I intend you to hear. 

Must occasion a deal of surprize : 
Wc arrived here in very good style, 

The journey was safely performed ; 
And I know it will cost you a smile, 

To see how your friend is reformed. 

No longer you hear me complain 

Of a single and unsettled state, 
My wishes have not been in vain, 

For I have not much longer to wait ; 
Then ask not the reason my friend, 

Why so many years I have tarried ; 
The longest lane must have an end, 

And Emma will shortly be married. 

Yes ! Married ! A positive fact. 

To a merchant with plenty of cash ; 
He has now gone too far to retract, 

But I own, on his part, it is rash. 
He is not good looking, 'tis true. 

But then, he has beautiful hair ; 
His figure is just six foot two, 

He dresses it quite militaire. 

I cannot attempt to reveal 

The sensation I cause him, and, then. 
You know not how happy I feel, 

For my love is the kindest of men. 
I am sure it will please you, to hear 

I have found out an excellent way 
To make beauty-spots disappear, 

By rouging them every day. 

My lips that were always so white, 

I colour with gum and carmine ; 
My form that was always so slight, 

Is now grown remarkably fine. 
There is no one like Madame Le-Row, 

For padding and wadding and bust. 
But do not mention this pray, I know 

You are one of the few I can trust. 

My love has a house of his own. 

With furniture, cut-glass, and plate ; 
His salt-spoons are not made of bone, 

But silver, and very good weight. 
He has just sent to town for a dress, 

All embroidered with flowers, so fine, 
I am sure I have reason to bless 

This generous lover of mine ! 

I have emeralds, brooches, and rings. 
Pearls and diamonds, the best ever seen. 

And every morning he brings, 

A salute for his " own little queen." 

The Exeter girls would delight, 

To scratch out my eyes, could they see 

The jewels I wear every night, 
And how my love doats upon me. 



Papa and Mnniina must feci proud, 

To sif uie Id liii|i|>y Hud ^',h\, 
It is wliispiTfd — (.but nut M'ry loud) 

'1 liat wc shall ht- iniirrii'd in May. 
I wi^li the event lind passed by, 

Kor uh ! there is uiiiiiy a »l>Pi 
(Which uo one knows better timn I) 

Tliat severs the cup fruiu the lip ! 


v.. Coiiiii. 


There's a chnrui in the sky, when, nt evening, the sun 

Sjheds his fust fa('ii!i(j; pUiry o'er earth ; 
There's a charm iu t'ao wreath wliich the soldier has won. 

When defendinp tlic land of his hirtli ; 
But yet there's a charm more pleasinp than thc^e, 

And one to a feelin? heart dear. 
More sweet than the iiiiL'htiniTHle's song on the breeze, 

It is a Reciprocal Tear ! 

There's a charjn in a smile on the lips v.-hcre we love, 

Or a sicrh from the heart where we dwell ; 
There's a charm in tlie (rianee of the eye, far above 

The pow'r of a poet to tel! : 
Hut &.i clouds may flit over the blue vault of heaven, 

To show it more briirht, and more clear, 
The smile, sijth, and frluner, arc to passing winds given. 

To meet— a Reciprocal Tear ! Mary. 



Let friars boast of gravy stews. 
Of fricassees, and rich ragouts, 
Their claret, champagne, eau de vie. 
Have charois for thein, but none forme, 
I sing the praise, all piping hot. 
Of real Jamaica Pepper Put '. 

Jamaica ! noble little isle, 

With thee, my thoughts shall rest awhile, 

For memory still loves to trace 

Back scenes that time cannot efface. 

My foster mother's saljle kiss, 

Was once tn me a world of bliss ; 

Her graceful form, that woolly hair. 

Those dusky cheeks, and teeth so fair, 

Arc all CHL'raven on my mind. 

With other scenes much more refined ; 

As time elapsed, so age displayed, 

A taste that has been well repaid. 

No alderman can boast of hash. 
Like callipee and callipash ; 
Here vie find flesh, and fowl, and fish, 
Concentrated in one rich dish : 

Oh turtle ! king of i>oupg &nd stews, 
Tliy royal precedence let n >ue refuse ; 
'I'heu melon, gnnva, shaddock, pine. 
The new made rum, and shrub so fine ! 
Hut Frenoh and English cooks have not 
A dish to equal Pepj er Pot ! 

Oh I reader, words can ill cxpres-i. 
What constitutes this royal mess ; 
They call its origin divine: — 
'Tis said that Circe and Proserpine 
Resolved to form a soup so fine 
That mortal bands should never dare 
To make a stew so rich and rare ; 
And thus this recipe for years. 
Was quite confined to higher spheres. 

The story goes — one winter night, 

Young Bacchus wshcd to cause a light 

To frighten all the folks on earth, 

(Some wild effusion of his mirth) ; 

To make a rocket this young thief, 

From Juno's book tore out a leaf, 

Which chanced to be the real receipt. 

For cooking most delicious meat : 

The rocket, so the natives say. 

Burst very near Montego Bay ; 

And those who found the case and shell. 

Have reason to remember well 

The very time, the very spot. 

That brought them this rare Pepper Pot I 

Of gravy soup make just four quarts, 
The meat must be four different sorts, 
A whole calve's head, a young pig's cheek, 
!>i.x mutton chops, and one beefsteak ; 
Then take a ci-ab and boil it well," 
Pick all the meat from out tlie shell ; 
Then add two pounds of salted fish. 
Well beaten in a mortar disU ; 
With bearded oysters half a score, 
And capsicums stewed, three or four ; 
Add cayenue, and well ground spice. 
Fill a spoon of each full twice, 
Then with the gravy let it boil. 
And take off all the scum and oil ; 
Let leeks and onions do their part, 
And from a cabbage take the heart : 
Add Spinach leaves, and turnips two, 
Take carrots five, and peas a few ; 
Thcu parsley, majorum, and thyme. 
Some mint, sage, marygold, and lime ; 
Of forcemeat balls add sis or seven. 
And flour dumplings eleven ; 
Then mix the whole, and let it stew. 
Not more than minutes thirty-two ; 
Then dish it up all piping hot. 
The real Jamaica Pepper Pot. 








&c. &c. &c. 

No. CLXX. 

LONDON, MAY 1, 1838. 

Vor.. XV. 










Spring, beautiful Spring 1 

Flowers come blossoming on thy wing ! 

Sweet-scented flowers of many a hue ; 

The bright and the beautiful all come with you, — 

There's the hyacinth's blossom, rose~red and white, 

That would turn into day, the darkest spring night ; 

Sometimes 'tis laughing beneath the moon's ray. 

Or bending its bells for the poet's warm lay. — 

Then there's the violet, so blue, and so shy 1 

That hides 'neath the green leaf her dark laughing eye. 

Crouching to shun the admirer's warm hand. 

She rather would die in her own little land, 

Than be gazed on, and loved by beauty's fond look ; 

No 1 she'd rather remain in her green- shaded nook. 

The snow- drop puts forth her fairy-like flowers, 
Though lowliest in height, it above the rest towers ; 
In beauty she stands the garden's bright star, 
Though others boast hues, she outshines them far ; 
For never was woman so lovely ! — so bright ! 
As this flower with buds stealing into the light ! 
There's an innocent look in the pearly white bell, 
Which seems of blest joys in heaven to tell. 
It hushes all darkening wild passions to rest, 
And forces out prayers from the soul to be blest, 
But adieu to thee. Spring ; for thy day's on decline. 
And the next will come joyous to this heart of mine I 

M. A. S. 



The beautiful weather at the commencement of the month 
enabled our young and amiable Sovereign to enjoy equestrian 
exercises in the neighbourhood of the parks almost daily ; but 

Vol. XV. 

the most attractive proceedings of the month, in which royalty 
has been concerned, was the Drawing Room, which as far as 
regards costume, was, perhaps, the most splendid that ever took 
place within St. James's palace walls. We enjoyed the pleasure 
of mingling with the happy throng of fashionables, and particu- 
larly observed the dresses of the ladies present, and we can say 
that, with some few exceptions, they appeared to be entirely neiv. 
We are strongly tempted to write down the names of the dis- 
respectful ladies who ventured into the Queen's presence in 
costumes that had passed through the Drawing Room before ; 
but we refrain from so doing, in the hope that this gentle hint 
of the impropriety of the circumstance may have the effect of" 
inducing every British lady to appear for the future in the 
presence of Britain's Oueen, as they should do, in dresses that 
are perfectly new. There was a constellation of beauty at the 
palace on this interesting occasion ; the gentle aspects of the 
sylphs that were constantly flitting past us, in the floating 
draperies studded with rich and rare gems, and smiles more 
enchanting than the most costly of them ; the pi-esence of the 
splendid warriors, glittering with orders, formed an admirable 
contrast v.'ith that of the quiet and gentle creatures whose eyes 
reflected the admiration they inspired, and whose silver voi<:e3 
warmed the surrounding air as they came through it. Many 
debutantes, wTiose youth and loveliness well qualified them to 
surround the throne of one like themselves, " so fair and young," 
were presented to he? Majesty. Were we compelled to select 
a flower in this wreath of loveliness as most conspicuous for 
" richness of hue and symmetry of form," we would distinguish 
the beautiful Miss E — 1 — d, whose loveliness recalled more to 
the mind " a beauteous work of art starting into life,'' than the 
fairest specimcL of female beauty which sometimes meets the 

Never, upon any previous occasion, had we been so impressed 
with the taste evinced by the ladies, especially in the arrange- 
ment and choice of their costumes. The simplicity as well as 
variety of the colours — which was so observable in Her 
Majesty's costume, which the trimming of the skirt with pink 
auriculas made most delicately fanciful — aff'ected the heart as 
pleasur^ly as the brilliancy of the costly ornaments attracted 



the admiration of the eye. Wc piirticularly reinarkcil the pre 
vitlciice of blm-k velvet, worn in such a imiiiiRi- thut the ivory 
skin irleiiiniil like sun.-liiacil snow. The luxurious folds of the 
■while sutiii dress, relieved by the body and Iruiu of eiueruld green 
Velvet, was also u most beautiful contrast; and when the cos- 
tume, as was the caijc with that of her Grace the Duchess of 
Northumberland, but sliphtly contained any other colour, the 
harmony of tlie picture was sinpularly pleasing. The costume 
of Louis Uuatorze was also the favourite of many choices. In 
the exterior of the palace the scene which presented itself was, 
throughout the day, extremely animated. The park at an early 
hour was thronged by many who had resolved upon a holiday, 
that they might give the only evidence they could of their affec- 
tion and respect for their Sovereign, by showing their anxiety 
to sec her — while the thoroughfares south of the palace were 
eompletiiy stopped up both by the carnages of the uobiliiy 
who were on their way to coiu-t, and of those who sat in 
them by the road side, to be spectators of the beautiful 
picture which tlie occasion placed before them. The tops of the 
houses, windows, and balconies, were all crowded by fashionable 
and elegantly-dressed ladies. The windows of the club houses 
in .St. James's Street and Pall Mall were also crowded by mem- 
bers and their tricnds, laughing among themselves, bowing their 
salutations into cab and carriage as they whirled by, and uo 
doubt making excessively witty and profound observations upon 
•what they beheld, and the things thereby suggested. The day, 
too, was a fine oue, and the music which the bands played iu the 
I'alace Yard, admirably selected to befit the occasion. 

Having described thus fully the imposing ceremony at the 
Drawing Room, which was the principal event of the month, 
wc have only to state, that Her Majesty left town for Windsor 
on the 1 1th, where she passed the Easter holidays ; the Court 
returned to London, however, on the 24tU. 


By a royal proclamation, the coronation of Her Majesty 
Queen Victoria is appointed to take place on Tuesday, the 26tli 
of June. Uy a second proclamation Her Majesty declares it 
to be her will and pleasure that such part only of that ceremony 
as has been hitherto solemnized in Westminster Abbey shall be 
solemnized at the ensuing coronation ; thus dispensing with the 
procession, the bantpiet, and the usual formalities in West- 
minstcr-hnll. The i)roclamation hints that the ceremonial at 
the .\bbey may also be curtailed. It certainly maybe curtailed 
with advantage, for ?ome parts of it are most preposterous, 
being relics of ancient and barbarous superstition, and others 
are even personally indelicate, especially when the Sovereign 
ts a womon. 

On the approaching coronation there is to be neither banquet 
nor procession. The reason avowed for this curtailment is, that 
the " arrangements may be made as much abridged and 
economical as may be compatible with a strict regard to the 
Bolciuoity and importance of the occasion." 


The Earl Marshal's Order concerning the Robes, Coronets, &c., 

which are to be worn by the Peers at the Coronation of Her 

Most Sarred Majesty Queen Victoria. 
Th-'se are to give notice, to all Peers who attend at the Coro- 
iMttion of Her Majesty, that the robe or mantle of the Peers be 

of ciimson velvet, edged with miniver, the cape furred with 
miniver pure, and powdered with bars or rows of ermine, ac- 
cording to their degree — viz. 

Harons, two rows. 

Viscounts, two rows and a half. 

Earls, three rows. 

Marquesses, three rows and a luilf. 

Dukes, four rows. ' 
The said mantles or robes to be worn over the full Court 
dress, uniform, or regimentals usually worn at llcr Majesty's 
Drawing Rooms. Their coronets to he of silver gilt ; the caps 
of crimson velvet turned \ip with ermine, with a gold tassel on 
the top ; and no jewels or precious stones are to be set or used 
in the coronets, or counterfeit pearls instead of silver balls. The 
coronet of a Haron to have, on the circle or rim, six silver balls 
at equal distances. Tiie coronet of a Viscount to have, on the 
circle, sixteen silver balls. The coronet of an Earl to have, on 
the circle, eight silver balls, raised npon points, with gold straw- 
berry leaves between the points. The coronet of a Marquess to 
have, on the circle, four gold strawberry leaves and four silver 
balls alternately, the latter a little raised on points above the 
rim. The coronet of a Duke to have, on the circle, eight gold 
strawberry leaves. 

By Her Majesty's command, 

Norfolk, Earl Marshal. 
The Earl Marshal's Order concerning the Robes, Coronets, &c., 
which are to be worn by the Peeresses at the Coronation of 
Her Most Sacred Majesty Queen Victoria. 
These are to give notice to all Peeresses who attend at the 
Coronation of her Majesty, that the robes or mantles appcr- 
tiiining to their respective ranks are to be worn over the usual 
full Court dress. That the robe or mantle of a Haroness be of 
crimson velvet, the cape whereof to be furred with miniver pure, 
and powdered, with two bars or rows of ermine; the said 
mantle to be edged round with miniver pure two inches in 
breadth, and the train to be three feet on the ground ; the 
coronet to be according to her degree, viz., a rim or circle, with 
six pearls upon the same, not raised upon points. That the 
robe or mantle of a Viscountess belike that of a Baroness, only 
the cape powdered with two rows and a half of ermine, the 
edging of the m.intlc two inches as before, and the train a yard 
and a quarter ; the coronet to be according to her degree, viz., 
a rim or circle with pearls thereon, sixteen in number, and not 
raised upon points. That the robe or mantle of a Countess be 
as before, only the cape powdered with three rows of ermine, 
the edging three inches in breadth, and the train a yard and a 
half ; the coronet to be composed of eight pearls raised upon 
points or rays, with small strawberry leaves between, above the 
rim. That the robe or mantle of a Marchioness be as before, 
only the cape powdered with three rows and a half of ermine, 
the edging four inches in breadth, the train a yard and three 
(ptartirs ; the coronet to be composed of four strawberry 
leaves and four pearls raiscil upon points of the same height as 
the leaves alternately, above the rim. That the robe or mantle 
of a Duchess be as before, only the cape powdered with four 
rows of ermine, the edging five inches broad, the train two 
vards ; the coronet to be composed of eight strawberry leaves, 
all of equal height, above the rim. And that the caps of all 
the said coronets be of crimson velvet, turned up with ermine, 
with a tassel of gold on the top. 

By Her Majesty's conamand, 

Norfolk, Earl Marshal. 



The engrossing subject of conversation in all the fashionable 
circles is the coronation, and numerous are the speculations and 
enquiries which are constantly being made with reference to that 
highly interesting ceremony. It would seem by an observation 
that fell from the Marquis of Lansdownein the House of Lords, 
just before the House broke up for the holidays, that the 
arrangements are not positively decided upon. The gout mands 
are very much offended because there is no prospect of a dinner 
to conclude the solemnity. But when the fatigue which Her 
Majesty will experience during the cei-emony of the coronation 
is considered, no one can have a serious wish to inflict upon 
Her Majesty the additional trouble of a banquet. It would, 
indeed, be a splendid sight, and a truly English one, to see Her 
Majesty enthroned in state in Westminster Hall, presiding at 
the banquet table under the same roof where her ancestors had 
entertained their nobles and the bright-eyed dames of England 
in the times of old. It would inspire a thousand delightful 
recollections, and give increased splendour to the commencement 
of Victoria's reign : but we would much rather forego the plea- 
sures which such a banquet would create, if a probability exists 
that Her Majesty would suffer in health by the additional 
fatigue which it would occasion. We do not think, however, 
that the banquet ought to be abandoned upon lighter grounds 
than these : we would not countenance the objections of those 
niggardly few, who oppose the banquet out of economical 
motives, and exclaim against it because it would cause an outlay 
of a few thousand pounds extra. England has always been 
distinguished among nations by its splendour and magnificence ; 
it is the just pride of the English people to see their Sovereigns 
maintain a high degree of state upon all public occasions, and 
never have they refused their contributions for such purposes. 
It is the pride of the English to expend their wealth upon these 
occasions, and we trust that if Her Majesty should feel her 
strength equal to the labour, the English nobility will not be 
disappointed of their entertainment. 

The ceremony of the homage to be paid to Her Majesty at 
the coronation, to which we adverted last month, has produced 
many weighty discussions among the gentlemen of the Herald's 
College, with a view to its modification or abolition in the case 
of our young Sovereign. It was also the subject of much 
learned disquisition on the accession of William IV., who, it 
was said, entertained strong objections to being compelled to 
receive the lip service of his faithful peers on so wholesale a 
scale. His Majesty, however, was less successful in his endea- 
vours to escape from the loyal infliction than we hope Queen 
Victoria will be. In 1831, the subject of the homage was fre- 
quently discussed in the privy council, and, in the August of 
that year, a rumour that it was intended to curtail this part of 
the ceremony occasioned a somewhat animated conversation in 
the House of Lords. It had been proposed, in the privy council, 
that the homage should be confined to one peer from each order 
of the peerage, in pursuance of the plan which had been fol- 
lowed at the coronation of George IV. ; but this homage by 
sponsors was indignantly repudiated by Lord Strangford and the 
Duke of Wellington, as " disgraceful and unseemly;" and the 
Marquis of Londonderry went so far as to declare, with much 
warmth, that " there were individuals in the peerage who would 
transfer to no man their right of tendering homage to their 
Sovereign, which was a sacred and most important part of the 
ceremony. Ultimately the homage by sponsors was abandoned, 
and the ancient ceremonial observed. 

Will the peers stand on their right with regard to the basial 
part of the ceremony in the coronation of Queen Victoria ? We 

hope not ; although in ancient times it would have been con- 
sidered little short of Icesa niujestas to have abated one jot of it, 
even in the case of a female Sovereign. 

The anointing is a part of the ceremony more recommended 
by antiquity than delicacy, and will probably be omitted 

There will be a greater assemblage of Foreign Princes and 
Nobles at the coronation than was ever known upon an occasion 
of the same kind. The second son of the King of the French, 
tlie gallant Duke of Nemours, will, it is thought, represent his 
royal parent ; the King of the Belgians has chosen the Prince 
de Ligne as his representative ; Prince William of Lowenstein 
will be the representative of the King of Saxony ; the Emperor 
of Austria will send over twenty Hungarian Noblemen, the 
Chiefs of Ancient Houses ; and Russia and Prussia will be 
represented by a deputation of their principle Noblesse. Town 
is now more full than was ever remembered ; every hotel at the 
West End is engaged, and the season will be unprecedented in 
splendour, from the number of brilliant fetes intended to be 
given by the Nobility in honour of the coronation. Among the 
many young and handsome individuals who will surround the 
throne of the young Queen, may we not expect that upon some 
particiilar one Her Majesty's young affection will rest ? 

The crown with which the youthfid brow of our Sovereign is 
to be invested will be a new one, made expressly for the occa- 
sion, and in its structure very different from the imperial 
diadem, having no coloured stones whatever, the only jewels in it 
being diamonds of the finest water, and the golden band, from 
w'hich the bars spring, representing the national emblems inter- 
woven with oak foliage, the fleur-de-lis being totally omitted. 
The court tradespeople are now very busy, the orders for new 
coronets, velvets, furs, and other paraphernalia of a coronation 
being extensive. 


The Short Season. — There are already murmurs heard in 
the fashionable circles at the early appointment of the corona- 
tion, which will occasion the season to terminate long before its 
usual period. Immediately after the ceremonial. Her ^Majesty 
will depart on a tour, and the season will, of course, expire, to 
the grievous discontent of many beautiful belles, who have just 
" come out," and who hoped for a long career of pleasure and 
gaiety in the metropolis. 

Lady Adelaide Fitzclarence, a beautiful and accom- 
plished girl, is coming out shortly. It is probable that she 
will be presented at the next drawing room. Earl Muuster has 
taken a box at the opera for his daughter. 

The Stars at Almack's. — The first ball for the season 
took place on the evening of the first drawing room, and it was 
most splendidly attended. There is every reason to believe 
that these recherche balls will receive increased patronage, and 
sustain that distinguished character in fashionable society for 
whicli they have been so long famed. The company mostly 
appeared in rich court costumes ; and many of the ladies 
wore elegant plumes, which added greatly to the coup d'ceil, 
when the major part of the visitors had arrived. Many dresses 
were of the most magnificent appearance, and costly fabrique. 
We particularly noticed the Dowager Duchess of Richmond, in 
a costume of black satin and gold lama, and a brilliant tiara of 
diamonds. The Countess of Jersey wore a dress of cerulean 
blue satin, tastefully ornamented with silver, blue velvet head- 
dress, and tiara of diamonds of the purest water. The Mar=._ 



rhinne<is of Downshirc, a hcad-drcss of niiiqiic tnste and 
uovrlty, composed of brillinnts and pearls, and interspersed wltti 
flowers. The Marehioiiess of (lueensJ)crry was particularly 
conspienous, from the profusion anil costliness of the diamonds. 
Ainonest nthers, distinguished for the splendour of their cos- 
tumes and head-dresses, were the Countess of Liehfield, 
Countess of Cadotrau, Lady Louisa Fitzroy, I^dy Mary 
Oriniston, I>ady Fuller, Lady Domvillc, Lady Trollope, the 
Misses Majoribanks, Colville, Uomville, &c. The prevailing 
dress amonp-t the younger usitors was aernphanc and silver, 
with plumes, diamonds, and pearls. Many distinguished 
foreigners made their deljul on this occasion, amongst whom we 
noticcil Prince Lowenstein Walstein, Baron de Worthcr, Baron 
de Zundt, «:c. 

The Hon. Mrs. Norton rides almost daily in the Parks, 
accompanied by her mother ; she looks niclaucholy, but much 
better than wc expected to see her. 

L.\iiY A has already given four balls, and means to 

gi\e another. There arc very few such mammas ! 

The Hf.ikrss is regularly besieged. If report speaks truly, 
the three or four elder sons who are s.iid to have prostrated 
themselves and fortunes at her feet, have been rightly answered. 
" I am but what I was before, although I have now become the 
possessor of great wealth : you did not seek me then I" This 
is excellent. 

SPRING. — The influence that the spring has upon the blood," 
and indeed upon the general system, is well known, and not 
less commonly felt. A very frequently remarked effect to this 
cause is the diminution of both beauty and health that takes 
place in those most essential attributes of our frame — the sktn 
and the hair of the hiad. The first, at this period of the year, 
peuerally displays a sallow hue, from the degenerated mass of 
the fluids, that peculiarly call for correctives ; while the hair 
becomes, from the same cau«e, drooping, dry, and discoloured. 
In stating these well-known facts, we beg to call the reader's 
ntteutiun to those admirable and unique discoveries, Rowland's 
K\i.\V)on., for the Skin ; and Rowi,.\nd's Mac.\ssau, Oil, 
for the lltiir. The many years of public trial, and consequent 
approval, which these friends to human beauty have experienced, 
must necessarily give them first-rate claims to notice. Rowland's 
Kalydor is a niihl, innocent, and yet most efficacious prepara- 
tion, that Jiijtpis all irtitahi'.ity from the skin, gent y ai,sists in 
opening the pores, relieves the secretions, and grudually tstah.'ishes 
a white and perfect skin of transparent beauty. Rowland's 
Macassar Oil is not less felicitous iu its results with the Hair, 
into which it infuses fresh nourishment and life, giving it a 
beau I {ful gloss, with a graceful tendency to curl ! 


Hkr .Majkstv's T111.ATRK KOR 1838. — The Uukc of Grafton, 
Ltidy Edward Ihyunc, Ludy Gardner, Lady Knighton, Lady 
Br!d,)ort, Lord Dundas, Marchioness of Breadalbanc, Vis- 
cLuntcss Powerscourt, Countess of Durham, Prince Estcrhazy, 
Marchioness of Aylesbury, Earl of Liverpool, Countess of 
Southampton, Duchess of Leinster, Lord Montague, Lady 
Antrobus, Countess Nelson, Marchioness of Londonderry, 
Duchess of Buccleugh, the Ladies St. Maur, Lady Conroy, 
Marchioness of Sligo, Marchioness of Downshire, Countess 
of Ciaven, Countess of Mansfield, Duchess of Cleveland, 
Mrs. J. Drummond, Mrs. Horsley Palmer, Countess of Rosc- 
bery, Lady VVonibwell, I>ady, Mrs. Meieklam, Lady 
Willonghby D'Kresby, Duchess of Beaufort, Counters de Salis, 
Countess of Pembroke, Lady Fremantle, Mrs. CapUiin Watson, 
VitfCouDtess Maynurd, Hon. Mrs. Tollemuche, Maichioucss of 

Lansdowne, I^dy Rarensworth, Lord Exmonth, Countess of 
Sefton, Viscountess Glentworth, Lady Curtis, the Lord 
Steward (the Duke of Argyle), and the Baroness de Roths- 


Strauss has been giving concerts alternately at the Hanover 
Square and Willis's Rooms, where his orchestra, certainly a 
very good one, may be heard to much advantage ; waltzes arc 
the chief compositions, and one called the Aightingale Waltz, 
pleased us much, as it seemed to do the audience, who were loud 
in their dimand for an encore. Les bouquets is also an extremely 
pleasing composition ; the solo's are all played with great pre- 
cision, and the ensemble of the orchestra is very perfect. Wc 
were glad, however, to find the performances were not well 
attended; the monstrous charge of half-a-guinea for what used 
to be charged one franc iu Paris, is too gross to be tolerated, and 
Mr. Strauss will find the English are not such flats as he 
imagines, and if he hopes to succeed, he must play the prices of 
admission in a minor key. 

Devin's concert at the Hanover Square rooms had not much 
to boast of on the score of novelty. The duet concertante for 
oboe' and bassoon, played by Bai-rett and Baumann, was a 
spirited performance, and the performance on the violin by the 
young Millanollo is deserving of commendation. The Distiu 
family also sang some of their Tyrolean melodies. 

The Argyle Rooms have also their Tyrolean singers, and 
the portrait of some young lady is held out at the doors as an 
inducement to passers by, but seemingly with little effect, the 
rooms not being very well attended. 

'l"he Royal Socikty ok Musicians had their annual meet- 
ing, when, according to custom, the marches composed for the 
Society by Hadyu and Winter, were performed with good efl^ect ; 
Mr. Anderson and Blagrovc's duett for piano and violin, com- 
posed by De Beriot, from the Sonnainbula, was an admirable per- 
formance. Mrs. Anderson's spirited execution being much and 
deservedly spplauded. 


Alice ; or, The Mysteries. By E. L. Bultcer, Esq. 3 vols. 

This is an antidote to the poison of " Ernest Maltravers," of 
which novel it is a continuation : if read together, there is moral 
and poetical justice iu the work, but, taking the first part by 
itself, it is an incoherent and highly reprehensible story : vice is 
exhibited triumphing over virtue, and without being followed by 
any punishment; and a series of exaggerated representations of 
character are insisted upon as positive truths. There is the 
same affectation in " Alice" as in " Ernest Maltravers," but 
there is more delicacy in the treatment of the subject — the 
characters are less repidsive, and the denouement is rather more 
satisfactory than that of " Ernest Maltravers." 

The Courtier's Daughter. By Lady Stepney. 3 vols. 

Lady Stepney is a neat but not very natural writer ; her 
stories have all the semblance of fiction, and are often without 
tlie interest of narratives of the kind. The hero of her present 



tale is as perfect a sample of the villain class as was ever pro- 
•duced in a melo-drania at a minor theatre, but his adventures 
are not cleverly WTOUght. The story runs something in this 
manner : — The son and heir of a nobleman forms an acquaint- 
ance with a low and vulgar youth, named Joyce, and from this 
connexion spiings all the interest of the story. Joyce introduces 
his high-born friend to a village girl to whom he is iipon the 
point of being married, but the young nobleman is struck by the 
girl's beauty, and contrives to wean her affections from Joyce, 
who is enraged at his disappointment, and determines to be 
revenged. Accordingly, lie poisons the mind of the young lord, 
sets him against the girl, and induces him to desert her, when 
she sinks into a deep melancholy, and the nobleman marries a 
lady of a rank suitable to his own. Joyce is appointed steward 
when his friend succeeds to the honours of his family, and still 
harbouring his long-meditated scheme of vengeance, he contrives 
to persuade his master that the Countess, his wife, is unfaithful 
to him, and brings about a duel with the suspected lover of 
the Countess. The Earl is dangerously wounded, and while 
confined to his room, tlie steward secretly removes his lady to a 
subterraneous dungeon, where he contrives to keep her for 
twelve yeai's, and having poisoned the girl whom he loved, he 
causes her to be interred as the Countess, whose death is pub- 
licly announced ! It is scarcely necessary for us to comment 
upon the palpable absurdity of this. What strcuige ideas Lady 
Stepney must have of the world. Well, the wounded nobleman 
recovers, and proceeds to London, in order to drown his cave in 
the delights of the court. He there becomes the observed of all 
observers, and is appointed ambassador to a foreign court. 
While engaged upon this mission, his daughter, a fine delicate 
heroine of seventeen, returns to the family mansion. This is 
very annoying to the villain, Joyce, who forthwith resolves upon 
putting her out of the way. But the young heroine is sagacious : 
she reads the character of Joyce at once, and is upon her guard. 
It now becomes necessary that a lover should appear upon the 
scene, for a lady of seventeen — and so clever too- — would not 
he endurable without a lover ; and accordingly upstarts one in 
the person of the son of the gentleman whom Joyce had caused 
his master to fight a duel with. The young gentleman becomes 
very fond of the young lady, and the young lady becomes very 
fond of the young gentleman. But Joyce is determined that the 
young heroine shall have no husband, and resolves upon murder- 
ing her while passing through a wood on his way to visit the 
interesting young damsel at the castle. But the lady, like a 
true heroine as she is, having received an intimation of the 
contemplated mischief, disguises herself, and, armed with a 
pistol, issues from the castle, comes upon the villain and his 
intended victim at the critical minute, saves the innocent youth, 
and wounds the old sinner, who subsequently takes poison, 
confesses all his crimes, and dies. The Countess is released, and 
restored to her husband ; the young lovers are married ; and 
" all live very happy afterwards." Such is the story of " The 
Courtier's Daughter," — a fine Spring dish for novel readers, 
though rather difficult of digestion. 

The Robber. By Mr. James. 3 vols. 

Mr. James is favourably known to our literature by his 
" Richelieu," " Darnley," &c., works of considerable merit and 
popularity, the reputation gained by which, however, is by no 
means supported by the production before us. It is strained in 
its plot, and some of the narratives are tediously drawn out. 
The scene is l^d in England, at the time of Charles the Second ; 

the hero is a sturdy yeoman, who, upon his return from the wars 
in the low countries, takes to the road, and becomes a robber. 
Another prominent character is the Earl of Danemore, who, 
having been driven from his country during the Protectorate of 
Cromwell, has taken refuge in France, where he elopes with and 
secretly marries the daughter of a nobleman, but whom he sub- 
sequently repudiates by fraud. Returning to England he mar- 
ries another lady, and a son is born to him, to whom he 
resolves to leave all his wealth, to the prejudice of his only son 
by his former marriage, of which only two persons are cognizant, 
one of whom is the robber we have adverted to, and who takes 
charge of the neglected child. A gi-eat variety of adventures 
occur to the parties, but eventually the true heir is recognized 
and acknowledged by his father, the brother is killed, and the 
robber dies by his own hand. The conclusion is effectively 
worked up, but a great part of the rest of the story flags con- 
siderably ; the excitement of the reader is not kept up, and we 
become tired of the work long before the best part of it is 
arrived at. 



" The Drama's laws the Drama's patrons give ; 
And they who live to please must please to live." 

HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE.— The production of the 
Lucia di Lamiaermoor has been attended with a success almost 
equal to the Puritani, when first performed in this country, and 
like that excellent opera bids fair to remain long an established 
favourit,e with the subscribers. The Bride of Lammermoor has 
furnished the subject, though the libretto is not exactly a la 
Scott, but through the three acts adheres sufficiently to the 
original to enable those amongst the audience acquainted with 
the story to follow the plot with the greatest ease ; where alte- 
rations have been made it has been done with a'view of giving 
a greater portion of the music to the principal characters, and 
rendering it more perfect as an opera than a drama. The opera 
opens with the discovery by Ashton (Tamburini) of his sister's 
love for Ruvcnswood (Rubini) at which he is very indignant ; 
the second scene is the meeting of Ruvenstoood and Lucy Ashton 
(Persia Ni), where the former states he is about to leave the 
country : there is then the marriage scene to which Lucy has 
been induced to give her consent by misrepresentations, and the 
sudden entrance of Ravenswood throwing the whole into confu- 
sion by his bitter upbraiding of Lvcy for her inconstancy ; and, 
in the last act, we have Lkc!/'s madness after killing her hus- 
band, and Ravenswood in the last scene stabs himself when he 
hears of her death. Donizetti is a most prolific composer, 
throwing off his compositions with wonderful rapidity ; and, 
like most quick writers, occasionally very happy in his ideas, 
the present being, without doubt, one of the best operas he has 
written ; the prevailing character of the music is plaintive and 
melancholy, harmonizing with the romantic incidents of the 
drama, and in almost every instance appealing forcibly to the 
feelings, from the music seeming so much in unison with the 
sad and melancholy feelings of the unhappy master of Ravens- 
wood, the last aria sung by Rubini in the third act, being one 
of the most beautiful things we have ever heard. Some of the 
airs in the earlier part of the opera are of a lighter nature, and 



are written with much freedom and spirit, an easy and graceful 
melody running- throughout ; the portions that pleased us most 
were the opening aria by Tamburixi, Cruda Funesta ; the aria, 
by Persiaxi, Perche non ho del vento, which opens with a 
beautiful obligato passage for the flute ; and the duet between 
EuBiNi and Persiaxi (that concludes the first act) Sulla 
fromha cite rinserra ; in the second act, the duet between Tam- 
BORiNi and Persiani, Se tradirmi ; Rubini's aria, Lo rendi, 
hai tradifo, and the concluding quintet ; and in the third act, 
Persiaxi's aria, Sparyi di qualcJie pianio ; and Rubijci's 
exquisitely plaintive air, O.' bell! alma innamorata, v^hxch. is 
one of Rl'bini's most successful efforts ; the beautiful obligato 
passage for the above that gains so much applause is not in the 
original opera, but is the composition of Signor Costa, and is 
highly creditable to his talents. 

Persian! is seen to more advantage in this opera than in 
the Sonnambula ; her surprising execution and masterly finish 
have ample opportunities for display, and she proves herself also 
to have great powers as an actress, — the marriage scene and 
her subsequent madness being excellently played, drawing forth 
much applause. Rubixi also threw considerable energy into 
his part, which seems a great favourite with him, the music 
suiting him admirably, and Tamburini's rich manly voice as 
the Tiranno, adds greatly to the success of the opera ; we are 
also bound to mention a Signor lyioRKLLi, who not having 
much to do, performed that little in a most creditable manner. 
The chorusses were well drilled, and went with admirable pre- 
cision. The whole opera is well got up, and cannot fail of 
having a long and prosperous career, and rewarding the liberal 
director for the spirit he has displayed in its production. 

Adolphe Adam's charming Opera Comique, Le Chalet, has 
furnished the subject of the new ballet, and a very good one it 
makes. The music is preserved with much care, and the various 
well-know airs with which the opera is interspersed, have under- 
gone very little change ; we were much pleased with the way 
the air Liberie, chere liberie, is transferred to the cornet or 
piston, the effect of which is very good. Our readers are 
familiar with the story, which is the same as Donizetti's 
opera of Beihj, so recen,:ly criticised in this work, that we need 
not repeat it ; Bellone was the peasant girl, who finds it so 
difficult to make iip her mind to marry, and both played and 
danced with much ease and vivacity, and Coulox as the bois- 
terous Serjeant, and Costou as the love-sick swain, performed 
with much spirit ; the dances were novel and graceful, and the 
grouping extremely well managed. The ballet, though short, 
is interesting, and will prove a favourite throughout the season, 
with some little change in one or two parts. 

Grisi made her first appearance for the season as Desdemona 
in Olello to an overflowing house, when she was received in the 
most rapturous manner from all parts of the house, and the 
token of welcome was also most liberally bestowed upon 
Lablache, whose recent calamity seemed to be felt by the 
audience. Grisi was in excellent health and spirits, the only 
change seeming that she was a little stouter than we remember 
her last year ; her voice, however, seems to ns to improve each 
season^ in pov\-er and richness, and nothing could be 
more beautiful than her manner of singing the aria in the third 
act, Asiisa a pie d'lin salice, it was replete with feeling and 
expression ; indeed, we can imagine nothing more beautiful 
than Grisi's manner of singing this aria. Rubixi was also in 
excellent voice, and Lablache and Tamburixi gave the duet 
No piu. crudule, in their best style ; at the conclusion of the 
opera, Grisi was loudly called for, and the manner in which 

she was received must have beea highly flattering to her. The 
Furifani, cast the same as last year, will continue to draw 
immense houses ; the ever charming po/accrt, Son veryine vazzosa 
is alone sufficient to repay the price of adiijission ; but all the 
music of this opera is tirst-rate, and we are glad always to see 
the house so crowded when it is performed, as we know it to be 
a specirJ favourite with the Subscribers. By a judicious arrange- 
ment on the part of the management, stalls may now be pro- 
cured at the Box office of the theatre, as a few have been re- 
served for the public instead of the whole number being allotted 
to the Subscribers. 

Tt is stated to be M. Laporte's intention to give a series 
of concerts on his own account, limiting the appearance of the 
singers to these concerts ; if this be true, it is a great gain for 
the public, who will be certain of having concerts in much better 
style than they have hitherto been accustomed to, as M. 
Laporte is too liberal a caterer not to give them in the best 
manner they can be, and the advantage of having them all 
under his direction will be a guarantee to the public that what- 
ever is promised in the Programme will be given, and most of 
our Subscribers know fuU well that at Benefit Concerts this is 
but very rarely the case. We wish the undertaking every 

We have seen it not less truly than forcibly remarked that in 
every age genius has had stumbling-blocks thrown in its path, 
and found the greatest difficulty in fighting its way to popular 
appreciation. But when the summit is gained, and the popu- 
larity awarded, men in general are more than willing to pay 
homage to lofty intellect. They make an almost religious feel- 
ing of their admiration, and pour it out with a fervour, de- 
signed probably to expatiate their first indifference and coldness. 
When the death of ^schylus was announced, a whole people 
saddened, Sophocles appeared in mourning, and the actors per- 
formed without their customary crowns. When Tasso in tra- 
velling from Rome, was detained upon the road by his com- 
panions' terror of a powerful bandit, the latter sent reverential 
greeting to the great bard, with proffers and assurances of safe 
conduct for him and his in every direction. When Ronsard, 
the Father of French Poetry, won the prize at the floral games, 
the city of Tholouse changed the votive meed of a simple 
Eglantine to a Minerva of massy and solid silver. When a 
Scottish Princess saw a poet asleep, she approached and kissed 
him, notwithstanding that he was excessively ugly, and thea 
said, " I do not kiss the man, but the mouth which uttered such 
lovely things !" And we all know how 

" The great Emathian Conquerer did spare 

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 
Went to the ground ; and the repeated air 
Of sad Electra's poet had the power ■^— 

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare." 4H 

In short, to say nothing of posthumous veneration, it is clear 
that, during their lives, men of genius (their supremacy once 
admitted) are everywhere hailed with cordial and spontaneous 
homage. It is, therefore, not a matter of surprise or wonder 
that the greatest of dramatic artists of modem times, the first 
great actqr of the modern stage, is held in high esteem by all 
the thinking and virtuous portions of the community. The gi-eat 
efforts which Mr. Macready has made, and is making, to 
redeem the character of the British drama from the disgrace 
into which unprincipled and ignorant men have thrcnvn it, have 




tailed forth the warmest testimonials of admiration and esteem 
from the greatest and best of nianlcind. A play at Co vent 
Cirden Theatre is now instructive as well as entertaining, and 
the theatre may be pronounced a school-house of morality, where 
the finest lessons are taught, and wisdom and virtue are enforced. 

We witnessed with great pleasure and satisfaction, the pro- 
duction of Lord Byron's tragedy of The Two Foscari, at 
CoventGardenTkeathu.. Its success far exceeded our expec- 
tations, even with our knowledge of Mr. M ACRE ady's powers, and 
our confidence that it would be produced in a most classic and 
perfect style. Byron's tragedy is scarcely in itself dramatic ; 
it affords a good opportunity for fine acting, and of this Mr. 
Macrkady has availed himself with admirable effect. There 
is but little plot in the tragedy, as is, no doubt, well known to 
our readers, but of that little an immense deal was made by 
the actors, all of whom seemed to be influenced by a kindred 
spirit to that which filled the mind of the great actor whose 
genius gave such powerful reality to the leading character (the 
Doge) as we never before witnessed upon the English stage. Mr. 
Macready's acting was equal to Byron's poetry ; full of grace 
and truth, of simple elegance, and intense passion, unbroken 
and undisfigured by vulgar rant and traps for the applause of 
the injudicious. The character of Jacopo Foscari (the son of 
the Doge, whom the latter endeavours to save from the cruel 
vengeance of the Council, and finally expires upon his bier) was 
creditably sustained by Mr. Anderson ; the only fault we can 
find with whose performance was a perpetual tendency to whine. 
Whining is as bad as ranting, and thisi promising young actor 
should endeavour to remedy his error. The part of Marina, the 
wife of Jacopo, was taken by Miss Helen Faucitt, who 
played it with considerable effect ; but she pitched her voice too 
high throughout ; she was too noisy, too outrageous ; she 
should profit by the temperance of Mr. Macready. Mr. 
Warde, Mr. Elton, and Mr. G. Bennett are deserving of 
praise for the great pains they took with the minor characters 
to which they were appointed. The tragedy was perfectly suc- 
cessful ; indeed, we never knew the success of a piece more 
decided ; it was announced for repetition in the midst of a per- 
fect storm of applause. 

A new operetta, called Windsor Castle ; or, The Prisoner 
Kin^, has been produced at this theatre, but the music was of a 
very indifferent character, and the piece was dramatically ineffec- 

On Easter Monday, after the performance of Shakspeare's 
tragedy of Macbeth, a new melo-dramatic spectacle was pro- 
duced, bearing the title of Sinhud the Sailor ; or, the Valley 
of Diamonds. The piece, as the title indicates, is founded upon 
the adventures of Sinbad, as recorded in the Arabian Nights' 
Entertainments ; the dramatizer, Mr. Serle, whom we cannot 
compliment upon his performance, for it is crude and vulgar, and 
more like the opening of a Christmas pantomine, than a light 
and elegant Easter spectacle. The grotesque dancing of the 
large-headed dwarfs, created a great deal of laughter in the 
galleries, and the scene of the Valley of Diamonds is deserving 
of every praise, for no expense seems to have been spared in the 
production of the desired " effect." 

DRURY-LANE. — Mr. Charles Kean has appeared in 
the character of Shi^hck since our last ; we paid considerable 
attention to his performance, but could not perceive any cause 
for altering in the slightest degree the opinion we have already 
expressed of this young actor's abilities. The Easter enter- 
tainment at this house is one of the most stupid and vulgar 
things we ever witnessed j it is a kind of " Astley's" perform- 

ance, and by no means so good. The endeavour is to represent 
some of the eccentricities of an eccentric Marquis; but they 
have already been exhibited in the print-shops, and little or no 
iuteri.-st is attached to them. The idea of leaping over a five- 
barred gate in a drawing-room was a strange one, and as it had 
been actually done for a wager, it excited a sensation ; but the 
imitation of it upon the stage was absurd. There are a profu- 
sion of very bad puns introduced in the piece, and some other 
vulgarities are perpetrated by the performers. 

A new " grand romantic opera," entitled The Gypseifs 
Warning, the music by Mr. Benedict, has been pro- 
duced at this theatre, and with some degree of success. The 
story of it was absolute nonsense, the music is of a rather better 
character. Still we cannot pronounce Mr. Benedict a great 
musiuiau ; he has studied in the German school, but he imitates 
the heaviness of the German masters without being able to pro- 
duce their harmony. Some of his orchestral effects are good ; 
but the opera is too dull to be very attractive. Miss Romer, 
Phillips, and Templeton sustained the principal characters. 
Mr. Benedict formerly accompanied on the piano-forte the 
recitative of the singers at the San Carlos at Naples. 

HAYMARKET. — This theatre, having been repaired and 
elegantly decorated in the style of Louis Cluartorze, was re- 
opened on Easter Monday, under the management of Mr. Web- 
ster, who raised the theatre so highly in the estimation of the 
pulic last year by his excellent direction. The piece selected 
for the opening was Sheridan Knowles's excellent comedy 
of The Love Chase ; Mrs. Nisbett's character (Conntance) 
being sustained by Miss Elphinstone, a pupil of Knowles', 
who had obtained a very high provincial reputation. Miss 
Elphinstone has many qualifications for the stage ; in addi- 
tion to great personal beauty, she has much diumatic talefit, 
and by her personation of the difficult character of Constance, 
we were much gratified, and led to form expectations of her 
future histrionic assumptions. The part of Master Waller was 
taken by Mr. Glover, his first appearance in the metropolis, 
and who acquitted himself very satisfactorily. He is a talented 
and gentlemanly actor, and was frequently applauded. A Miss 
Cooper appeared as Lydia, and gives much promise of future 
excellence. In the Widow Green, we had again the great pleasure 
of seeing Mrs. Glover, who has, we are happy to say, recovered 
from the effects of her late accident, and is as lively and enter- 
taining as ever. ' May she live a thousand years ! ' The after- 
piece was a d;ama, originally produced at the Adeljihi, called St 
Mary's Eve, in which Madame Celeste performed with her 
usual ability and success. 

OLYMPIC— Madame Vestris is about to leave England 
for America, and has brought out a vaudeville, called the 
Drama's Levee, a spirited little thing, in which she nightly takes 
leave of the English public. The other performances at this 
theatre do not call for notice. 

ST. JAMES'S. — Mrs. Honey commenced an engagement 
here on Easter Monday, in a burletta, by Haynes Bay'Ly, 
called My Album, a light unpretending piece, in which she acted 
and sung very delightfully. A piece, called The Brothers, gave 
Mrs. Stirling a good opportunity for displaying her versatile 
talents. Another novelty, bearing the title, Hero and Leander, 
is an effective " show" piece ; its principal characters supported 
by Mrs. Uoney and Miss Jane Mordaunt. 

ADELPHI. — The Groves of Blarney is the title of a new 
piece which has been produced here with some success. Mr. 
Power sustains the principal character, and to his humourous 
acting chiefly, the success of the drama is to be ascribed. 




Diorama. — The subject of the painting is Tlvoll, taken 
from the terrace, and presenting a different view from any we 
have previously seen, and one we think admirably chosen for 
dioramic display ; there is some truly beautiful painting iu the 
picture, which is finished with much care and skill. The 
Chevalier Bouton has been very successful in imparting the soft 
and sunny glosv of an Italian landscape, and particularly in the 
appearance of the sky ; some of the newspapers have questioned 
the appearance of the ground and herbage, but would these 
wiseacres wish an artist to paint an Italian view as though it 
werean English scene ? This is sheer nonsense ; the view is from 
nature, and we can vouch its accuracy. The waterfall is 
extremely well managed, and the bridge and ruined walls are 
remarkable for the spirit and freedom with which they are 
touched oflf ; altogether, the present view is one of the best we 
have seen even here, and likely to prove very attractive ; the 
Basilica of St. Paul, which we spoke so highly of last year, 
remains ; its surprising effects continuing to excite so much 
admiration as to render any change unnecessary. 

The National Gallery is now open to the public every 
day until the 7th of May, and then only the four first days of 
the week. Several additions have been made to the collection, 
but the rooms in which they are placed are a disgrace to the 
country. Several of the pictures named in the catalogue as 
painted by different masters, have been proved to be incorrectly 
described ; and a curious circumstance has been related with 
regard to those marked as Watteau's. 

Burford's Panorama. — The new painting is a view of 
Canton, said to be from the sketch of a native artist. The 
subject is interesting, and painted with all the skill usually 
displayed by the Messrs. Burford. 

Portraits of Her Majesty. — The printsellers have been 
multiplying these portraits beyond all royal precedents, but we 
should think with very little profit to themselves, since there is 
not one that bears even a fair resemblance. Her Majesty is 
much handsomer than any of her portraits have made her, and 
must be greatly amused at the trash that is constantly being 
produced by the printsellers. 

Panorama of San Sebastian. — A view of San Sebastian 
has been opened in Maddox Street, taken from sketches made 
by Colonel Shaw ; the space is so very confined that the pur- 
poses of illusion necessary to such exhibitions are scarcely 
served. The picture has merit, as a painting, and had the room 
been less confined, we doubt not would have made a very 
interesting exhibition. 



It is the most pleasureable part of onr duty to record the 
happiness of the beautiful and young, aad sure we are that there 
is no happiness in life superior to that which young hearts feel 
when they stand before the nuptial altar, and in the face of 
heaven record their vows of truth and love. It is with much gra- 
tification, then, that we announce that the following weddings 
nave taken place since our last publicition. — In the Cathedral 
Church, Kilkenny, John Wynne, Esq., of Haslewood, in the 
county of Sligo, to Lady Anne Butler, second daughter of 
the Marquisof Ormonde.— At Munich, in the Catholic chapel,. 

and afterwards at the house of the British Charge d'A£feireSr 
Cajetun Frederick, Baron dk Toutthones, Chamberlain 
to his Majesty the King of Bavaria, to Jemima Montgomery, 
eldest daughter of James Montgomery, Esq. — On the 8th 
irst., Guildford Onslow, Esq., son of the Hon. Colonel 
Onslow, of Alresford, Hants, to Rosa Anne, daughter of 
General Onslow, of Stoughton House, Huntingdonshire. — At 
Charles Church, Plymouth, Emily% third daughter of Captain 
Sir J. J. Gordon Bremer, R.N., of Compton, Devon, to 
Alfred Howard, Esq., of Melbury Terrace, Dorset Square. 
We have now to state that among the deaths in high life 
which have occurred, is that of Mary, Duchess-Dowager of 
RoxBURGHE, who expired, at Richmond, on Monday last, after 
a very short illness. Her Grace was the daughter of Benjamin 
Bechenoe, Esq., and was married in June, 1789, to William, 
fourth Duke of Roxburghe, who died on the 22nd of October, 
1815. On the 19th of August, 1826, the widowed Duchess 
re-married with the late Hon. John Tollemache, second son 
of the Countess of Dy'sart, but leaves no family. We have 
also to state that the Dowager Viscountess Strangford died 
at Clifton on the 5th inst. .She was the eldest daughter of the 
late Frederick Philips, Esq., and was married on the 4th 
of September, 1779, to Lionel, fifth Viscount Strangford,. 
by whom she was mother to the present Viscount. Her Lady- 
ship was in the 82nd year of her age. 


We have much pleasure in acknowledging the receipt of the 

interesting contribution of Lady Mary B , but which came 

too late for insertion in our present number. Certainly in our 

Eleva declined with thanks. 

We have deprived one of the articles in our present number 
of its introductory falc, because it would have been cistnsteful 
to our readers. We are sure that our esteemed correspondent 
will not be angry at the omission. 

Esperance. — Be constant to thy motto, and try again. 

Rejected : — Lines to my Love ; R. ; Montralto ; and Lovers 
Last Adieu. 

A. A. A. — Why so inquisitive ? We can have no objection ta 
state that the lady named is an occasional contributor ; but the 
article alluded to is not from her Ladyship's pen. 

The Lines to Fidele are very humourous ; but not suitable for 
" The World of Fashion." 

Giulio'^ should never take pen in hand again, in the way of 
romance ; his Tale of Love is enough to "fright the isle from 
its propriety." 

Eloise. — We have read the Trohadour with much pleasure 
but although the ideas are original and good, and the article is 
fidl of interest ; the versification is very faulty. We are fre- 
quently compelled to reject the articles of talented correspon- 
dents, who might be successful in prose sketches, but whose 
poetry we cannot submit to our subscribers. 

Crab deserves a horsewhip. We have sent his letter to the 
lady's brother. 

Under consideration: — A Maiden' t Faith; Lavinia ; The 
Last Hours of Love; Adventures o/ a Danseuse; Sappho; and 
L. E. V. 


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Fig. 1. — Grey silk pelisse robe, the corsage made with a 
breast lappel, aad folds down the front ; has the folds and the 
lappel trimmed with black lace, which is continued en tablier 
down the front of the skirt ; Victoria sleeve, also trimmed with 
lixce. Hat of lemon-coloured metre, the interior of the brim ■ 
trimmed with rouleaus of ruby velvet and blond lace, inter- 
mingled ; the crown is decorated with straw-coloured ribbon, 
and a gerbe of flowers. 

YOUNG gentleman's DRESS. 

Fig. 2. — Nankeen trousers. Jacket of Bishop's violet 
merino, made en bhuse, and trimmed with gilt buttons. Black 
cravat, and cambric frill. 


Fig. 3. — Pelisse of black pou de sole, lined with straw- 
coloured gros de Naples ; it is open in front, displaying a 
jaconot muslin dress, embroidered round the border ; the 
corsage is tight, and the sleeves demi-large. The hat, of white 
pou de soifi, is trimmed in a very novel style, with a rosette of 
blond lace on one side ; it has long floating ends, and a flower 
in the centre ; coques of ribbon under the brim completes the 

MORNING visiting DRESS. 

Fig. 4. — Robe of one of the new green Pekinets ; the bor- 
der is trimmed with a very novel kind of fancy silk trimming, 
for which we refer to our plate ; half-high corsage, and pelerine 
fichu, which, as well as the double bouffant sleeves, are trimmed 
to correspond. Rose-coloured moire hat, a round open brim 
descending very low at the sides ; the trimming consists of 
flowers, and ribbons to correspond. 


5. — Evening Dress. — Blue silk robe ; corsage a la Du- 
harry, trimmed with a blond lace drapery and rose ribbons. 
Small round cap of blond lace, ornamented with roses. 

P. — Half Dress Bonnet of eiseau pou de sole, trimmed 
with ribbons to correspond, and exotics. 

7. — Evening Dress. — Pea green pou de soie robe ; corsage 
a la Pompadour. Head-dress of hair, ornamented with a gold 
bandeau, and white roses. 

evening dress. 
Fig 1. — Grey pou de snie robe, open in front, and trimmed 
down the sides with white satin bouillonee, formed by knots of 
crimson velvet ; the tablier is composed of rich lace over white 
satin ; corsage pointed, and cut low, with short sleeves, both 
trimmed with lace and knots of velvet. Head dress : a bonnet 
a la Chmtal, of crimson velvet and white satin, ornamented 
■with coques and floating brides of ribbon. 
evening dress. 
Fig. 2. — India muslin tunic, over a petticoat of the same, 
both trimmed with chefs d\r ; corsage a la Sevigne, trimmed 

en suite. Head-dress : a pouff of scarlet gauze, striped and 
fringed witli gold. 

MORNING dress. 

Fig. 3. — Green taff'ctas robe ; the border is trimmed with a 
flounce ; the corsage, high behind, with a small collar, is very 
open in front, displa)ing a high chemisette ; the sleeve is demi- 
large. Head-dress : a bonnet a la Badet, of tulle, ornamented 
with flowers and ribbons. Apron of Soide Constaitiine. 
half-length figures. 

4. — Morning Dress. — High dress of canary moire, with a 
double fall of lace round the neck. Bonnet a la Paysanne, of 
tulle, simply trimmed with ribbon. 

5. — Back view of a head-dress of hair, ornamented with a 
gold, ferronniere, and a band of white satin fringed with gold 
twisted round the knot of hair at the back of the head. 

6. — Back view of a head-dress of hair adorned with flowers. 


morning dress. 

Fig. 1. — Peignoir of gris lacende moufiseline delaine, lined 
with green sarsenet, and trimmed down one side, and round the 
border, with a rouleau of the same. The corsage is of the usual 
form, but the sleeves are of the demi-Venetian kind. Collereite 
of embroidered muslin. Cap a Aemi-cornette of spotted tulle, 
trimmed with pink ribbon. 

public promenade dress. 

Fig. 2. — Robe of peussiere Pekin, the border is trimmed with 
a triple flounce, which is edged with green pou de soie. Man- 
telet of white pou de soie, made with a pelerine lappel, which, as 
well as the border of the mantelet, is embroidered in a rich 
wreath of flowers in coloured silks. Hat of pink pou de soie, 
full trimmed in a very novel style, with blond lace and ribbon. 

MORNING dress. 

Fig. 3. — Pelisse of rose noisette gros de Naples ; the corsage 
made en amazone, has the collar and lappel faced with cherry- 
coloured velvet ; the ceinture and knots which fasten the dress 
down the front correspond. Sleeve a la Duc/iesse cV Orleans ; 
drawn bonnet of white pou-_ de soie, trimmed with field flowers, 
and a veil of gauze blonde. 


1. — Half Dress Bonnet of blue pou de soie, trimmed 
with a white aigrette, and a sprig of white roses. 

2. — Half Dress Bonnet Bouillonnee of iuUe, trimmed 
with roses. 

3. — Morning Cap of English lace, a small round shape, 

trimmed with green ribbon. 

carriage dress. 
Fig. 1. — Robe of rose-coloured /)o« de soie; the corsage tight 
to the shape, with long sleeve made close to the arm, bnt ren- 
dered very full at the upper part by three falls of trimming 
arranged in hollow plaits, and descending very low en Sabot. 



Mantelet of the material of the dress made en ^charpe, descend- 
ing in a point behind, and with long floating ends; it is bor- 
dered with a full trimming, corresponding with that which 
borders the front of the skirt on each side. Col If ret fe en fichu 
of English point lace. The bonnet is composed partly of rice 
straw and partly of green taffetas ; it is trimmed with green 
ribbons, a sprig of foliage, and blond lace. 


Fig. 2. — Bh)e crape robe, over gros de Naples to correspond ; 
the border is trimmed with two flounces, surmounted by a third, 
which is disposed en tunique, and the trimming continued round 
the lappel of the corsage, which is cut low, and in the heart 
style. Long sleeves a la Durhesse. Hat of white ;jok de soie ; 
a round and very open brim, trimmed next the face with a band 
of pink gauze ribbon, and shaded roses ; the edge of the brim 
is finished with a rUche, and the crown decorated with ruban 


Fig. 3. — Indian green /a/V-^as robe ; the corsage is high and 
plain ; the sleeves of the demi-gigot form, but bouillonvee at 
top. The dress is decorated all down the front with a trimmina 
of a very novel description, for which we refer to our print ; it 
is composed ot i-ouleaus oi chesnut coloured pou de soie ; the 
bottoms of the sleeves are ornamented en snite. Embroidered 
muslin coUerelfe, trimmed with lace. Pink pou de soie hat of 
rather a large size, decorated with ribbon to correspond. 


4.— Opera Pelerine and Capuchon. — The first com- 
posed of back satin, is trimmed with a lozenge border of velvet, 
and fastened by knots of ribbon. The second, also of black 
satin, is lined with cherry-coloured ^ros de Naples, and trimmed 
with black ribbon. 

5. — Carriage Hat of white pou de soie, trimmed with 
blond lace, a wreath, and a gerbe of lilac. 

6. — A side view of the dinner hat. 

7. — Opera Coiffure and Pelerine. — The head-dress is 
composed of black lace ; forming a cap in front, but open at 
the back of the head ; it is decorated \^-ith flowers, velvet, a 
gold chef and pink ribbon. The pelerine is blue velours epingle, 
lined and trimmed with swans' -down. 

promenade dress. 

Fig. i . — Pelisse of rhubarb-coloured gros de Naples ; a tight 
corsage, with a pelerine en cceur, trimmed with two volans, one 
of which is continued down the front of the skirt ; tight 
sleeve, with a fuU mancheron of anew form. Drawn bonnet of 
pink pou de soie ; the crown is trimmed with ribbon, and the 
interior of the brim adorned with blond lace and cherrj-- 
coloured roses. 

home ebess. 

Fig. 2. — Blue pou de Soie robe, of the demi-re(?j«^o/e form ; 
the skirt is trimmed with ribbon ; corsage a Revers, and 
Victoria sleeve. Small round cap of tulle, profusely orna- 
mented with pink ribbon. 

public promenade dress. 

Fig. 3. — Robe of one of the new moiisseliiies de laine ; the form 
is that of a wrapping pelisse ; a tight cormge of the shawl form, 
trimmed, as is also the skirt, with a flounce festooned with 
green ; dsmi-large sleeves, ornamented with a naud de page of 
flowered ribbon ; ceintiire en suite. Drawn bonnet of white pou 
de soie ; the interior of the brim is trimmed, with flowers, the 
crown with ribbons, and festooned drapery. 


Notwithstanding the cold and rainy weather so ungenial at 
this season, several elegant novelties have appeared in summer 
fashions. We have given the most striking in our prints, and 
,, we now hasten to lay before our fair readers, the result of those 
observations on the modes which we have been studiously em- 
ployed in making for the last month. We will begin with those 
novelties in carriage dress, which may be considered the most 
decidedly worthy the attention of our fair readers ; and first ia 
the list are the 

Mantelets Andalouse. — They are composed of India 
muslins embroidered in the richest manner, and lined either 
with citron, rose-ccloured, or iilac silk ; the trimming consists 
of lace en application Francuise; it is very broad, and of a 
beautiful pattern. We do not know fi-om whence these elegant 
mantelets have derived their Spanish name, for their form does 
not, strictly speaking, entitle them to it ; but assuredly nothing- 
of the kind that has yet appeared, can be more graceful or 
more advantageous to the figure. 

Muslin Shawls may be fairly placed next to the article we 
have just described. Let our fair readers figure to themselves, a 
large square shawl of the finest India muslin, encircled with a 
broad aperture of that kind stiied riviere de jour, on which is 
strewed the most beautiful embroidery in relief ; the corners are 
magnificently embroidered in very large patterns. The shawl 
is entirely encircled with rich broad white lace, set in very full. 
At present those elegant envelopes are lined with silks of light 
colours, but as the weather gets warm, they may be worn 
without lining, and will form the lightest and most elegant of 
all the summer shawls. 

Bonnets. — We may cite as among the simplest, but most in 
request, of carriage bonnets, those composed of coloured silks, 
and covered wutli clear muslin, very lightly embroidered ; the 
whiteness and transparency of the muslin has a singularly 
pretty effect over the coloured silk. These bonnets are 
trimmed with ribbons, the folds of which ai-e intermingled with 
very rich lace ; and several that wehave seen are finished with a 
violette en application. These bonnets will be fashionable dur- 
ing the summer, but ada/)ted only in the very highest quarter, 
because, notwithstanding their simplicity, the very expensive 
materials of which they are composed, i-endcrs their price ex- 
cessive. Next to them in elegance, and much less expensive, 
arc those of white, or light coloured pou de soie. The crowns 
are ornamented with a wreath of Spring flowers, from which a 
gerbe falls on one side of the brim ; the interior of the brim is 
trimmed with blond lace, and flowers arranged in the lightest 
and preitiest stile we have yet seen ; a narrow band of lace 
passes plain across the forehead, and is intermingled with very 
little fulness among the flowers ; this kind of trimming though 
not in itself exactly novel, has an air of elegance and reclurche'. 
We have seen a few rather close bonnets of rice straw, simply 
trimmed with ribbon ; they are decidedly smaller than the others, 
and are remarkable only for an air of neatness, and almost 
quaker like simplicity. / 

Hats. — It must be confessed that the materials'of hats this 
summer do not afford much novelty, at least, as yet. Italian 
and rice straw, pou de soie, and crape: such are the o.oly summer 
materials that have appeared. The two first, and crape, are 
the most in favour ; indeed, crape is likely to enjoy a vogue that 
we do not remember it to have had before so early in the season. 
The brims of hats are neither so large, nor so wide as they were 
in the winter ; the diminution is greater over the forehead than 



in the rest of the biira, for it is still very long at the sides, and 
advances very far on the cheeks, which is generally speaking 
very unbecoming. The colours most in favour for crape hats, 
are rose straw and white ; the edge of the brim is bordered with 
a band of satiu of about an inch in breadth each way, and a niche of 
tulle is placed upon it. This satin band adds to the solidity of 
the hat, and produces besides a very pretty effect ; panaches of 
shaded marabous complete the trimming. Rice straw hats are 
trimmed with large sprigs of either white or red roses. 

Flowers. — Although the whole domain of Flora is laid 
under contribution, there are nevertheless some flowers more in 
request than others. We may cite among the most fashionable, 
honey-suckles, moss-roses, violets of different kinds, heath- 
blossoms, the small wild daisy, snow-drops, and the wild 
geranium ; but of all the flowers that have appeared, perhaps the 
most elegant is the tiisse coiutius, they are composed of the 
brides of marabouts. Nothing can be more lighter or more 
delicate than these flowers on a rice straw, or a crape hat. 

Silks. — We must own that materials as yet do not exhibit 
much of novelty ; they are in fact those of last year, rendered in 
a great degree, however, novel by the arrangement of the 

Lingerie. — The most novel form for collars, are those cut 
in the horse-shoe shape, so as to follow the shape of the corsage. 
Fichus richly embroidered will replace canesnus ; they descend 
like them to the waist, but they form a collar behind. As the 
cuffs of sleeves are now very deep, a good many mancheties are 
made of a very simple form ; they are, in fact, of the plain cuff 
shape, turned up over the bottom of the sleeves when the latter 
is quite tight ; the manvhdtc is frequently very deep, and laid on 
flat ; they are embroidered ; and finished at each edge by a row 
of narrow Valenciennes lace. 

Pelisses are likely to be very much in favour during the 
early part of the season ; we refer to our prints for some elegant 
models. At present they are made of silk only, and a good 
many are trimmed with a bias band, which encircles both the 
bottom and the sides of the pelisse. We have it, however, from 
very good authority, that as the weather gets warmer, muslin 
pelisses very richly embroidered all round the border, and not 
lined with silk will be adopted by many elegantes ; we have seen 
one of these dresses, which we consider the most elegant model 
that could be devised for them ; it is clear muslin embroidered 
all round, in a very rich pattern, and with a very great deal of 
open work, which has very much the effect of lace. The corsage 
is made en peignoir, but with a double pelerine pointed both in 
front and behind ; the upper part of the sleeve which sits close to 
the arm, is trimmed with three worked flounces, the remainder 
of the sleeve is full nearly to the wrist, where it is terminated 
by a richly worked band. Speaking of sleeves, we must observe, 
that although at this moment it may be looked upon as de- 
finitively settled that sleeves will be worn large, as at least 
that those absolutely tight are to be abolished, several ladies 
have been seen in carriage dress with sleeves fitting close to 
their arms, but we must acknowledge that these ladies were of 
high rank, so that they might be supposed rather to set fashions 
than follow them ; and also that they had very beautiful arms. 
In order to give our fair readers a just idea of the most elegant 
dresses that has yet appeared of the pelisse kind, we shall 
cite as 

Models for Spring Pelisses of icru gros de Naples, 
figured with poncean spots ; the corsage is tight, and closed, 
as is also the front of the skirt by very small knots formed 
pf four cogues of ribbon ; it is striped and shaded in pon- 

cean and ecru. The sleeves are the most novel that we 
have yet seen ; the lower part is made tight, the upper part full, 
but the fulness is confined in puffs of a moderate size, and in 
contrary directions, by very small knots of ribbon corresponding 
with those of the corsage and skirt. From the tasteful quarter 
in which this dress has appeared, wc think we may venture to 
say, that it cannot fail to become a general favourite. The 
other pelisse is composed of pearl grey pekin, figui-ed in marsh- 
mallows ; it is trimmed round with a garniture of the same, 
festooned with marsh-mallows' silk ; this trimming very narrow 
towards the top, encircles the bottom of the ,-arsuge, forming a 
point, and descending on the front of the skirt, which is open, 
it increases in breadth so as to form a deep flounce at the 
bottom. Tight sleeves ornamented with three full trimmings 
descending and forming a Sabot. Before we quit our descrip- 
tions of out door costume, we must say a few words upon the 

Victoria Parasols for Open Carriages. — They are 
perfectly calculated for that purpose, of a very small size, and 
with folding sticks, so that they may be used to shade the face 
as a fan ; they are composed of pou de soie chine'. Some are 
trimmed with fringes ; others have an embroidered border — all 
are pretty. As to the sticks, which are of wrouyht ivory and 
of antique patterns, they really are of uncommon beauty. 
These bijoux of parasols, as a fair young fiiend of ours' calls 
them, are, as may be supposed, of a very high price. 

Promenade Parasols are something smaller than those of 
last year. Some are of shaded, and others of striped silk. We 
may cite as the prettiest those composed of Fekinets of a white 
ground with coloured stripes or patterns. 

Fashionable Colours are several new shades of grey, 
poussiere, ecru, lilac, azure blue, cherry, pink, straw-colour, and 
the greatest variety of shades of green and rose that we have 
ever seen. 

from the most authentic sources. 

The Summer Fashions may as yet be said to appear slowly ; 
the weather, though fine, is far from warm ; we see, however, 
with pleasure, that simplicity and taste, those best handmaids 
of Fashion, have presided at the creation of the modes de prin- 
temps. Our Fair Readers will be persuaded of the truth of this 
assertion, partly by the models given in our prints, and partly 
by the details we are about to lay before them. 

Chapeaux de Promenade. — It may be regarded as a set- 
tled thing, that during the whole of the summer promenade, hats 
and bonnets will have the brims smaller, and descending more 
over the face than those worn in winter. Those of traille 
d'JtaUe will enjoy the highest vogue, that is to say, those of 
extravagant price, for we have seen some as high as twelve 
hundred francs, and even more. The style of trimming of these 
hats offers nothing remarkable ; in many instances a rich white 
ribbon carelessly tied at the end is their only ornament. Others 
are trimmed with either white or straw-coloured ribbon figured 
in green, and a long ostrich feather tipped to correspond with 
the ribbon. Some are trimmed with spring flowers, but these 
hats are comparatively few in number. Grey of various shades 
appears to be very much in favour for silk hats. We have gris 
argent, gris fauvre, and gris roussis ; there are also different 
colours with fancy names, which all have a tendency to grey, 
though the colour is not expressed in the name. These hats are 



always of />o« de «oie, and generally trimmed with #a/frfa rib- 
bon, either striped or plaided, in different shades of gi-een. 

Mantelets. — Let not our Fair Readers start at the word, 
it is no longer of the rich mantelet of velvet or satin that we 
are aljout to sp>eak ; their reign is over for the present, but tliey 
are succeeded by others suitable to the season ; for it cannot be 
denied that the mantelet seems to be adopted as a part of our 
national costume. Those that vife now speak of are poii de soie, 
trimmed either withswans'-down, which is expected to continue 
in favour during the whole of the month, or perhaps longer ; or 
else with black or white lace. We have also seen some of 
organdy, embroidered round the border in coloured cashmere 
wol-steds ; these latter are singularly beautiful, and are expected 
to continue in favour during the whole of the summer. 

Summer Silks. — Although printed muslins and mousselines 
de laiite will be very much in neglige ; yet silks are expected to 
be still more in favour, at least in the early part of the season. 
We subjoin a list of such as are proper for neglige: — Gros de 
Tyndango, a striped and shaded silk ; Gros de Messine, a simple, 
but very elegant material ; Gros dc Ssidon and points d'Armenie ; 
both are silks of a light and simple kind ; they are particularly 
well calculate-i for home neglige. We may cite among the new 
foulards, those called Ada, Azan, and Pekinet. Speaking of 
foulards, we may venture to predict that they will continue their 
vogue during the summer ; iu fact, they are expected to be very 
fashionable. We may add to our list the Chines de Syr, de 
Canada, de Crimea, Cyane, and Nogais. 

Summer Shawls. — Those of China crape are expected to 
be the most in favour this summer ; they are, without dispute, 
the most elegant of all the fancy shawls that have appeared for 
some years. They are embroidered in superb patterns of quite 
a novel kind ; instead of being figured in the loom, they are 
embroidered in silk, and without any wrong side, which, of 
course, renders them exceedingly expensive. We have seen 
some white ones, embroidered iu sprigs of roses, most beauti- 
fully shaded. We have seen also some ponceau shawls, embroi- 
dered in black. The greater number, however, of those that 
have already appeared are plain, embroidered in silk of the same 

Redingotes are generally adopted in promenade di-ess, and 
are expected to continue in favour till the weather becomes very 
warm. Corsages for these dresses are all made with flat backs 
and fronts either of the lappel kind, or else made with large 
firm plaits, which descend from the shoulder-strap to the waist. 
There is no ceinture, but one or two pipings which attaches the 
corsage to the skirt. We have not observed the smallest dimi- 
nution in the width of skirts, but they are certainly worn a full 
inch shorter than they were a month ago, and they are expected 
to diminish still more iu length during the summer. 

Sleeves. — We have no remarkable changes to announce in 
sleeves ; those of redingotes are still made for the most part 
demi-large, retained at the bottom and the top by tight pieces. 
Several have the lower part made tight almost to the elbow, and 
closed near the hand by three or four small butttons. 

Pelerines of the same material as the rediiigote are expected 
to be very generally adopted in neglige ; they are made very 
open in front, short on the shoulder, and falling in long rounded 
points behind. 

Evening Neglige. — We may announce with certainty that 
India muslin will be this season in very great favour in evening 
dress, both for robes of grand parure and neglige. We shall 
cite the most fashionable form of the latter ; the corsage is cut 
low and square, but with the shoulder-straps rather higher than 

usual ; it is edged with narrow Valenciennes lace, and encircled 

with an cniredeux of open work ; the fulness of the corsage, 
which extends the whole length of it, forms a gei be, descending 
in a point to the ceinture ; the sleeves are trimmed at the top 
with tuo volans, each surmounted by a coloured ribbon passed 
through the muslin, with a ribbon to correspond in the hem of 
the flounce ; the centre of the sleeve is full, but from the elbow 
to the wrist the fullness is retained in four places by ribbons 
passed through casings, and forming knots at the side. The 
skirt gathered in at the waist is trimmed with a very deep 
flounce, surmounted by a full casing, with a ribbon drawn 
through it ; two similar casings ornament the bottom of the 
flounce. These robes are always worn over white silk slips ; 
there is in the form of the robe, and also in the trimming some- 
thing at once novel, and elegantly simple. 

Modes DE LoNGCH AMPS. — We shall place under this head 
the most striking novelties that have appeared iu that brilliant 
promenade during the three days that it continued ; observing to 
our Fair Readers, that we have selected only those that we can 
confidently announce as decided summer fashions. 

Riding Dresses. — The prettiest were of h\ne pensee or 
blue cloth ; the corsage buttoned from top to bottom with a 
single row of buttons ; a velvet collar and tight sleeves. Panta- 
loons of coutil, either white or ecru . Cravat tied in the same 
manner as a gentleman's, and a large brimmed hat with a veil. 

Chales et Mantelets en Filet have again made their 
appearance, but with a modification which renders them more 
elegant than last year ; they are trimmed with broad lace also en 
filet. This kind of lace has also appeared iu coloured silks, 
and has beeu employed to trim both mantelets and shawls. 

Chapeaux de Lonchamps. — Those of paille d^Ilalie and 
rez, have appeared iu great profusion ; both have the buvotet 
turned up behind ; the brims ecasees and moderately large. The 
number of silk hats was also very considerable, particularly of 
those new colours more or less inclined to grey ; the crowns 
were trimmed with feathers, and the interior of the brims adorned 
with small cherry-coloured flowers. We may cite among the most 
elegant of the silk hats, one of rose-coloured pou de soie, 
trimmed round the crown with a chaperon of rose-colored 
curled feathers ; there was very little ribbon employed, only a 
baud and brides. A few hats of grey /eu^rt have been admired ; 
they are trimmed with a flat feather, \yhich placed on the left 
side winds round the crown ; it is grey, but shaded with blue 
or cherry colour ; a small cordiliere, corresponding with the 
plume, completes the trimming. 

Redingotes et Robes de Longchamps. — Wemaycite 
among the most remarkable of the first, one of taffetas glue rose 
et yris, cordage a severs, trimmed rouud with antique points. 
Another of pou de soie, narrow stripes, shaded in ecru upon a 
water ground ; the trimming was a chicore'e of the same mate- 
rial, which encircles the border, mounted on the front of the 
skirt en fablier, and ended almost in a point under the ctinture ; 
the corsage made partially open, and with a very large lappel, 
was trimmed to correspond, and the sleeve tight just below the 
shoulder, and full from thence to the wrist, had the fulness par- 
tially confined by a chicoree, wreathed rouud it in a very novel 
and fanciful manner. We may refer for the most elegant of the 
robes to the centre figure of our third plate, and the first of our 
fourth. The materials in general were those sununer silks of 
which we have already spoken. Several were trimmed with bias 
flounces. With regard to the forms, all that are actually novel 
we have given in our prints, but truth to say, there has bceu as 
yet very little change. 











" Through all his thread of life already spun, 
Becoming grace and proper action run ; 
The peace of virtue's equal hand so wrought, 
Mixed with no crime, and shaded with no fault. 

The high official situation to which the Earl of Durham has 
just been appointed, has attracted to that noble Lord a more 
than ordinary degree of public attention ; and the particulars of 
his life and of his family cannot fail to be read with interest. 
The Earl of Durham has long been distinguished as a states- 
man, and the appointment of his lordship to the office of 
Governor-General of Canada, at a time like the present, when 
that colony is in a state of rebellion, and it requires uncommon 
talents to restore peace and satisfaction to the North American 
subjects of her Majesty, shews that the government have a very 
high opinion of the noble lord's abilities, and, indeed, it is pretty 
generally understood that the appointment was at the suggestion 
of the Queen herself. Be this, however, as it may, the fitness 
of Lord Durham to execute the duties which will devolve upon 
him, has not been questioned either within or without the doors 
of Parliament, and it is much to be hoped that his lordship's 
mission will be productive of all the good effects expected by the 
government to result from it. The family of Lambton is one 
of the oldest in the kingdom ; the regular pedigree can only be 
traced from the twelfth century, many of the family records 
having been destroyed in the civil wars, but the previous resi- 
dence of the family, at Lambton, in Durham, is well proved 
by attestations of charters and incidental evidence, from a 
period very nearly approaching to the Norman conquest. From 
Robert de Lambton, feudal Lord of Lambton Castle, who 
died in the year 1350, lineally descended John Lambton, Esq., 
born in 1505. He was married to Agnes, daughter and co- 
heiress (with her sisters, Isabella, wife of R. Conyers, 
Esq., of Hordon, Durham, and Margaret, wife of T. 
Trollop, Esq., of Thornley), of Roger Lumley, Esq., of 
Ludworth, niece of Richard Lord Lumley, and great grand- 
daughter of King Edward the Fourth, (through his natural 
daughter, Elizabeth Plantagenet, wife of Thomas 
Lumley, eldest son of George Lord Lumlev). Thus it will 
be seen that the family, by this marriage, became connected 
■with royalty. Mr. Lambton died in 1552, and was then suc- 
ceeded by his eldest son, Robert Lambton, Esq., of Lamb- 
ton, who took to wife the fair Frances, daughter of Sir 
Ralph Eure, Knt.. and sister of Lord Eure ; but no cir- 
cumstances at all noteworthy occurred in the life of this gentle, 
man, or in that of his son and successor, Ralph Lambton, 
Vol. XVI. 

who married Eleanor, daughter of Thomas Tempest, Esq.^ 
of Stanley : we shall proceed, therefore, to speak of the son of 
the last-named gentleman, William Lambton, 'Esq., who 
flourished iu the time of King Charles the First, aud gave 
much assistance to that monarch in his troubles. He wus a 
colonel of infantry in the King's service, and obtaiued the 
honour of knighthood, in the year 1614. He was Iwiee married ; 
in the first instance, to Jane, third daughter and co-heiress of 
Sir Nicholas Curwen, of Workington, in the county of 
Cumberland, by whom he had a family of one son, Henry, and 
two daughters. Lady Lambton died in I63s, and Sir Wil- 
liam married, secondly, Catherine, daughter of Sir Henry 
WiDDRiNGTON, Kut., and had, besides other children, Wil- 
liam, who also entered the King's service, and perished in the 
battle-field while defending the royal cause ; and Thomas, who 
also served King Charles, and received the honour of knight- 
hood. The father of this brave family himself perished at the 
celebrated battle of Marston Moor, on the 2d of July, 1664, 
and was succeeded by his eldest son, Henry Lambton, Esq.. 
The lady of this representative of the House of Lambton 
was Mary, daughter of Sir Alexander Davison, Knt., to- 
whom he was marritd in the year 1 635, and by whom he had a 
family of eight children, four sons and four daughters. The 
eldest son, William, (born in 1640) was representative of the 
county of Durham in seventeen parliaments, but he died un- 
married in 1 724. The second son, Henry, was a barrister 
at law, and he also died unmarried, in 1702. The third, John, 
who was born in 1650, died unmarried in 1722. The youngesfc 
was the only son who entered the " holy estate of matrimony J' • 
and to him we therefore proceed as the contiuuator of the 

His name was Ralph Lambton, and the lady of his affec- 
tions (to whom he was married in 1636) was Dorothy, 
daughter and co-heiress of John Hed^vvorth, Esq., of 
Harraton. Hence the name of Hedworth, which is borne., 
by the family at the present time. Rali^ died in the year. ■ 
1717, leaving, besides four daughters, the following sons.. 
Henry, M.P. for the county of Durham, who succeeded t& . 
the estates of his uncle William, bat die;lunmarried in 176l.,_ 
Hed'worth, a major-general in the army, and who also died , 
unmarried in 1774. William, another old bachelor, who . 
succeeded his brother Hs>yi.Y, aad died unmarried ki 1774;. 
and a younger son, John Lamston, a wiser gentleman than 
any one of his brothei.s, for lie did not remain in a state of;-, 
bachelorism, but loved and weddeiloue who bec?a»e the comfort 
of his life. He married Susan, riaughtet of Thomas, Earl 
of Strathmore, He succeeded to the estates of his brother 
William, and became owner of Lambton Castle ; he was a 
major-general in the army, and colonel of the 68th foot. He 
died in the year 1794, leaving the following family. 

1. William Henry, bora November 16, 1764. . 

2. Ralph John. 
8. Jane Dorothy. 

4. Susan Mary Anne, who was mar-iediu l?90, to John 
Wharton, Esq. 

His successor was the above-mentioned William Henry, 
tlie father of the present iiarl of Durjiam. He representecl. 




the county of Durham in the House of Commons, of which he 
was a distinguished member. His lady was Anne Barbara 
Frances, daughter of George Bussey, fourth Earl of 
Jersey, to whom he was united on the 11th of June, 1791, 
and had surviving issue. 

1. John George, now Earl of Durham. 

2. William Henry, born March 27, 1793, married, in 
1824, to Henrietta, seconddaughterofCuTHBERT Ellison, 

3. Hedworth, M.P., born March 26, 1767. 

4. Frances Susan, who married, first, the Hon. Henry 
Frederick Howard, who fell on the field of Waterloo ; and, 
secondly, H. F. Compton Cavendish, Esq. 

Mr. Lambton died on the 30th of November, 1797. His 
widow subsequently married the Hon. Charles William 

We have now to speak of his eldest son, John George 
Lambton, Earl of Durham, and Baron Durham, of Lamb- 
ton Castle, in the connty palatine of Durham, Governor-General 
of Canada. His Lordship was born on the 12th of April, 
1792, and was married first on the 1st of January, 1812, to 
Miss H. Cholmondeley, of whom he was bereft by the hand 
of death, in July, 1815. Two daughters were the issue of this 
marriage, Frances Charlotte, born Oct. 16, 1812, and 
Georgiana Sarah Elizabeth, born March 2, 1814. His 
Lordship, on the 9th of December, 1836, again became a bride- 
groom, the lady to whom he was then united being Louisa 
Elizabeth, daughter of Charles, second Earl Grey, His 
-Lordship had the following family. 

1. Charles William, born Jan. 16, 1818. 

2. George Frederick D'Arcy, born Sept. 5, 1821, 

3. Mary Louisa, born May 8, 1819. 

4. Emily Augusta, born May 17, 1823. 

But death has deprived his Lordship of most of those bright 
■blossoms, which gave such promise of ripening into human per- 
fection : his lordship's domestic sorrows are great ; he has 
seen his cliildren growing in beauty and virtue, and seen them 
die — suddenly snatched as it were from his home and heart. 
The portraits of the fair and young 

Still hang upon his walls ; 
But the father's brow a sadness wears, 

On his heart a shadow falls. 
A herald from the spirit world, 

May tell its spirit tale. 
Why cheeks and lips, erst bright and red, 
Are livid now, and pale. 

His Lordship having represented the county of Durham in 
Parliament for several years, obtained the coronet which his 
wealth and talents rendered him so well deserving of; he was 
created Baron Durham, in Jan. 1828, and subsequently Earl 
of Durham. We have already alluded to his Lordship's ap- 
pointment in Canada : he will be accompanied by the Countess 
of Durham, and their surviving daughter, in his mission. 

His Lordship's arms are as follows : — sa. a fesse, between 
three lambs, passant ; ar. crest, a ram's head, cabessed, ar. 
horned, sa. Supporters ; two lions, the dexter yu., the sinister 
ar., each ducally gorged, or., supporting a staff gold, therefrom 
banners of the second, the dexter banner charged Avith a cross 
patr^e, and the sinister with a lion passant, gardant of the 
third. Motto : — " Le jour riendra.'' 

Lord Durham's seats are Lambton CasUc, Durham, and 
Copse Hill, Wimbledon. 



" The flower in ripened bloom unmatched, 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 

The leaves must drop away ! 
And yet it were a greater grief. 

To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
Than see it pluck'd to-day ! 

Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair." — Byron. 

Woman in her purity and loveliness is truly said by the poet 
to be the choicest object in the creation. It is, indeed, an exqui- 
site sight to see woman in the flush of youth and innocence, 
just stepping out of girlhood and into the world, of which she 
is to become the ornament or the disgrace ; for the best and the 
worst, the most virtuous and the most debased, have each had 
their time of innocence and glory, when full of angel thoughts 
and firmest holiness, their aspirations have arisen from the 
divinity of their young hearts and have worn the hue of heaven. 
There is a glory surrounding woman in this state of innocence, 
the contemplation of which makes the happy heart happier and 
the sad one sadder ; It throws the one into the momentary for- 
getfulness of the perishableness of all earthly things, and causes it 
to dream of eternal life, and love that shall never die ; and a 
thousand bright and beautiful fancies take possession of it, while 
in the other such contemplation inspires sorrow for the perish- 
ableness of beauty, and aw;akens that intense yearning for the 
purified state of existence where there shall be no death — where 
all that is young and bright and beautiful shall never fade or 
perish, but the angels' faces and the voices of sweet seraphs 
shall continually exist in the full glory of loveliness, and 
divested of the base material part, the enjoyment of this life 
and light will be the piu-e and hallowed enjoyment of the soul. 

It gave this happiness to the happy, and this sorrow to the 
sad to look upon Grace Cavendish, the young and beautiful 
child of a village curate, in one of the green vallies of the West 
of England, a worthy man, who not only taught his flock the 
way to everlasting happiness, but also by his example showed 
the sincerity of his belief, and the truth and efficacy of his pre- 

Grace Cavendish was just turned of seventeen ; she w-as tall 
for her age, but her figure was slightly and delicately formed ; 
and her footsteps were so light as to be almost noiseless as she 
passed along. Her features had now acquired their decided 
formation, and truly did they seem to be a sculptor's equisitely 
embodied idea of female beauty. Her fine open brow was 
shaded by dark luxuriant tresses, upon which were reflected the 
brightness of her large dark eyes, fringed with their long lashes, 
which gave so touching an expression to her countenance. 

Grace Cavendish was lively among the happy, but she could 
listen to the sorrows of the sad, and apply the balm of sym- 
pathy and commisseraticn to the afflicted spirit. She was the 
idol of her little village, and her reverend parent as he viewed 
her progress in beauty and goodness, and heard the prayers that 
were constantly breathed for her prosperity, in the fullness of 
his heart poured out his thanksgivings to heaven for the poses- 
sion of such a child. 

We have said that Grace Cavendish was just turned of seven- 
teen at the commencement of our little narrative. She was one 



day engaged in the bcncvolenttaskof administering to the neces- 
eitjes of au aged couiilc at the extremity of the village, when 
suddenly the door was thrown open, and a gentleman in a sport- 
ing dress entered the cottage for shelter from a storm which had 
commenced with much severity. The stranger was struck by 
the personal charms of Grace Cavendish, and long after the 
storm had subsided did he remain in the cottage engaged in con- 
versation with its inmates, although tlie sole attraction was the 
curate's daughter. At length she rose to return to her abode, 
and the stranger, rising at the same time, asked permission to 
accompany her. Grace declined this offer ; but he was going 
the same way with herself, and they proceeded therefore 

On their arrival at the curate's dwelling, the good old man 
was observed sitting in the porch watching the glories of the 
setting sun ; he arose as the stranger approached, and the latter 
extending his hand, said, " I am happy to renew my acquaint- 
ance with the Reverend Mr. Cavendish.'' 

'' Sir !" exclaimed the pastor, looking first at the unexpected 
visitor, and then at his daughter, who observing her father's per- 
plexity, said " This gentleman was at the cottage to which I 
have been, and 

The gentleman interrupted her. "My dear Sir," he said, 
" I can well understand your surprise ; twelve years make a great 
difference in our personal appearance, but twelve years ago, Mr. 
Cavendish would not have made a stranger of Bernard Hather- 

" Can it be possible !" exclaimed the old man, regarding the 
stranger attentively, " My young Lord Hatherleigh !'' 

" The identical little boy whom you used to give apples to 
when he had done well ; though terribly severe, as this poor . 
hand, if it had a tongue, could tell, in hours of indolence." 

" My Lord !" exclaimed the curate. 

" Nay, Mr. Cavendish," observed Lord Hatherleigh, " pray 
do not ' my lord' me. I have enough of that in town. I 
arrived here last night for the purpose of ease and recreation ; 
therefore, plain Bernard, now as ever, or else, if your humanity 
cannot overcome your notions of rank, call me nothing at all." 
And taking the hand of the reverend pastor, he shook it warmly 
and affectionately, while Grace, who had some confused recol- 
lection of a playfellow in her childhood, turned away her face to 
brush away some tears that had involuntarily started into her 

And this stranger, then, was Lord Hatherleigh — the young 
and titled man, who as a boy ever delighted in frequenting the 
house of his gentle schoolmaster, and being the playmate of the then 
thoughtless and romping Grace. Oh, the wild sports of these 
merry urchins then ! Now the boy had succeeded to the title 
and estates, was a peer of Parliament, an attraction in the 
circles of fjishion, and Grace, the romping girl, had become the 
beautiful and thoughtful woman, with sufficient of the girl to 
realize a picture of youthful innocence. 

Lord Hatherleigh had recognised his old companion in the 
cottage to which the rain had driven him for shelter, and all his 
old regard for his village partner was revived ; nay, indeed, he 
felt a stronger interest in her welfare, and though he had deter- 
mined upon remaining incog, at Hatherleigh Hall, he at once 
resolved upon seeking an interview and declaring himself to his 
old master and friend. 

Lord Hatherleigh became a frequent visitor at the house of 
the village curate ; he attached himself to the playmate of his 
childhood ; he threw aside all the reserve of rank, he despised 
tke eonventionalities of society ; he was again upon the seene 

of his happiness ; " the light of other days" appeared to be 
restored, he had passed through the scenes of splendour in 
which false hearts preside, and he had come again to the pure 
fount of nature, and now "looking creation in her holy face," 
he felt that he was wiser, and better, and happier ; and he had no 
further wish than to live and die in such scenes, and with suclt 

Lord Hatherleigh was sincere in his professions of superior 
regard for the scenery and the living objects of his childliood's 
home ; but the events of life alter our opinions and our belief 
materially, as far as worldly things are concerned. The objects 
of our delight at one time are our aversion at another — so frail 
are we — so erring is the mind — the gi'eat mind — upon which 
we pride ourselves ! Lord Hatherleigh believed that he could 
not be happier than when roaming over the green fields with 
his beautiful companion, Grace Cavendish, or listening to the 
morality of her exemplary parent : yet the time was not very 
far distant when he was destined to spurn that beautiful com- 
panion, and leave her young heart desolate, in shame, and des- 

Suddenly the good old curate died, and Grace Cavendish was 
alone in the world, and exposed to all its temptations. She 
was loth to quit her childhood's home, and Lord Hatherleigh 
graciously bestowed up her the cottage wherein she was born, 
and delicately refrained from visiting her until such time as a 
distant relation, whom she intended should reside with her, had 
arrived. The present of the cottage was made by Lord Hather- 
leigh as a tribute to the virtues of the exemplary curate, and 
Grace had no hesitation in accepting it, for Lord Hatherleigh 
had already whispered words of eternal love into her ear, and 
the scruples which her natural good sense had raised upon the 
point of the difference in their respective ranks, had been over- 
come by the deep devotion of the young nobleman. 

It was the love of Lord Hatherleigh which alone consoled 
Grace Cavendish under her sad bereavement ; she believed that 
he was sincere, and although death had taken from her her first 
protector, she felt assured that heaven had raised up one that 
would be a protector and guide through the world's varied 
maze. And Lord Hatherleigh's thoughts were then pure and 
virtuous as the maiden's heart. 

But a change took place, a sad and devastating change. 
Parliamentary affairs called Lord Hatherleigh away from the 
scenes of his happiness and the companionship of his beloved. 
And when the hour of parting came, they felt how dear they had 
become to each other, and how necessary was the presence of 
each to their individual happiness. There is no time in human 
existence more productive of melancholy feelings, with the ex- 
ception of the hour of death itself, than that of lovers' parting. 
Although they know that they shall meet again, that the sepa- 
ration is but for a time, that the duties fulfilled which exacts the 
sacrifice, the departing one will hasten back to happiness ; 
stiU there are fears of accident, of estrangement, and even of 
death, which embitter the parting hour, blanch the cheek of 
youth, bring tears upon their eyelids, and cause the lips to 
quiver, and the voice to be scarcely audible. They who have 
loved and parted, know fuU well the anguish of separation, and 
such may conceive the feelings of poor Grace Cavendish, when 
she became aware of the firm possession which Lord Hather- 
leigh had taken of her heart, and yet knew that they must part. 
It was a beautiful autumnal evening when they sat together 
in the little cottage parlour, looking out from its jasmine- 
covered casement, and Lord Hatherleigh told Grace Cavendish 
that he should depart for London on the following morning ;, 



" But' I will soon return, Nearest," he exclaimed, pressing the 
white hand of the orphan to his lips, " and then we shall asrain 
be happy." Grace replied not ; her heart was too fnll ; she saw 
in Lord Hatherleigh one who had been most kind to her father 
in*hiis dying hours, who had continued his kindness to her, an 
unprotected orphan — and ber gratitude, struggling with her love, 
would have prayed her lover not to leave her even for a 
day — she could not speak ; but her tears were eloquent, and 
Lord Hatherleigh felt their force, nnd pressing her to his bosom 
assured hCr that his absence would not be long, and that upon 
his return their nuptials should be solemnized. 

They met in innocence, but in guilt they parted. In a moment 

of thoughtlessness the beautiful orphan was despoiled of that 

immediate jerwel of the soul, which, poor though she was, 

• elevated her to the height of Lord Hatherleigh himself, and 

made hfer his equal. They parted in silence, and in shame. 

Within a ■Wsek Grace Cavendish received a letter from Lord 
Hatherle'igh, full of the tenderest protestations ; and Grace 
humbled Und degraded in her own opinion as she was, and as 
she felt she must be also in the estimation of her lover, derived 
some consolation from his letter, and that night sleep closed her 
eyelids for the first time since her degradation. She pressed 
the letter to her heart, and falling upon her knees in an agony of 
grief, mingled with hope, she poured out her thanksgivings to 
heaven, where the tears of the penitent and the breathings of 
the contrite heart are ever received and rewarded ; and that night 
she slept, and dreamed of happiness. But despair returned 
with the morning light ; there was no pleasure now for Grace 
Cavendish in the sweet breath of morning, the sunshine on the 
hills, the perfume of flowers, and the song of birds, in which 
she had once delighted ; she turned from them all, for all 
seemed to rebuke her, and to taunt her with the al)ject condi- 
tion to which she had fallen. 

The opening of her life had been bright and beautiful ; but a 
<rhange had come over the path of her existence ; and the once 
beautiful, gay, and innocent Grace Cavendish was now oppressed 
with care and grief; a recluse, bmrthened with her own 
thoughts ; conscience-stung ; moving like a guilty being, and 
startled by the slightest noise. 

The love of Lord Hatherleigh did not appear to be diminished ; 
he constantly wrote to her, and always expressed his anxiety for 
tSie arrival of the time when they should meet to part no more. 
This constancy gave some relief to the orphan ; but all the 
letters of her lover, and all his oft-repeated protestations could 
not remove from her mind the apprehension of his inconstancy 
and desertion. When she was innocent, she felt that she might 
deserve his love; now she knew that she had forfeited all claim 
to it. 

St^TOs jtbout three months after the departure of the young 
nobleman that Grace received a letter in a sti-ange hand, and 
when she opened it, she discovered that it was dictated by Lord 
Hatherleigh. He had been compelled to employ an amanuensis, 
in consequence, he said, of the great fatigue, occasioned by the 
pressure of public business, and beseeching the orphan to admit 
his secretary to their mutual confidence, repeated all his protes- 
tations of affection. But this time he expressed no anxiety for 
the occurrence of their nuptialf. 

The orphan pondered on this strange letter ; — she was amazed 
by it. She had feared the inconstancy of her lover, and yet 
when this proof of the justness of her fears came, she found 
excuses for him, would not believe the fears her heart sug- 
gested, and clung to the thought with wild and frantic devotion 
that Lord Hatherly still was true. 

For two months more this correspondence was continued, and 

the orphan's hopes were gradually expiring, and she was resign- 
ing herself to despair. She saw the gulf before her, and pre- 
pared to meet her fate with calmness. Secluded from the world, 
refusing all communion with her fellow-creatures, whose looks 
she feared more than her own thoughts — though the secret of 
her shame was unrevealed — she passed her lonely hours in peni- 
tence and prayer. 

The session being over. Lord Hatherleigh quitted London and 
repaired to his country seat in the neighbourhood of the orphan's 
home. But what a different man was he who returned, to the 
Lord Hatherleigh who went away. He was an altered man. He 
had been led into the gaieties and dissipations of the metropolis, 
and gradually his heart had become estranged from the young 
orphan whom he had betrayed. He sought an interview with 
Grace upon his return ; she received him. Let us pass over 
that interview, in which the severest pang the heart of the 
orphan had endured was inflicted ; in which the once honourable 
and high-minded Hatherleigh appeared in the light of a coarse 
insulting master, blighting the hopes which the orphan cherished 
that he would fulfil his promise, and repair at the altar the 
wrong which he had done her. Let it suffice that the orphan 
turned from the serpent with scorn and indignation, and flying 
from his presence, locked herself in her chamber, and in an 
agony of tears and suffering, prayed for protection from heaven. 

She never saw her betrayer after that hour. The suddenness 
with which the fact of his infamy had come upon her, destroyed 
her. She never held up her head again, nor ever did she come 
forth from that chamber to which she had flown from the pre- 
sence of the once-loved but now despised Lord Hatherleigh. 
" Heaven tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," and the last 
hours of the dying orphan were cheered by a light from above, 
and though friendless as she was in the world, and oppressed as 
she was by her own consciousness of error and self-degradation, 
she felt comforted and assured that her prayers had not been 
breathed in vain, and that freed from the trammels of earth, she 
would repair to a brighter and better world, where the soul, 
purified and redeemed from sin, enjoys eternal bliss. Such 
were the last hours of the betrayed ; and, when death came, the 
king of terrors found the orphan resigned and prepared, and 
when she laid lifeless upon her couch, the smile, which was still 
visible upon her lips, betokened the serenity and peace of the 
moment when the soul was freed of the erring but repentant 

Lord Hatherleigh, after being repulsed by the orphan, left the 
cottage, returned to town, and soon forgot her. He was 
engaged to marry his cousin, the Lady Clara Hatherleigh, who 
had captivated him with her coquettish airs, and the prepara- 
tions for the wedding had already commenced. The wedding 
day arrived, and a beautiful sunny day it was ; a day fit for a 
wedding of young and happy hearts. The arrangements at 
Hatherleigh Hall were upon a scale of great magnificence ; 
there were a numerous company of visitors ; and the tenantry 
were all rejoicing, because they were to have a feast in honour 
of the event. But Lord Hatherleigh himself was sad. The 
affianced bride had been at the Hall for a week before Lord 
Hatherleigh's arrival from London, which was on the night 
before the wedding, and as he passed the cottage, wherein he 
had once breathed vows of eternal love to Grave Cavendish, con- 
science accused him of his ingratitude ! He looked up to the 
chamber-window of Grace, and through the little muslin curtain 
perceived a solitary light burning, and the shadow of a female 
figure. He believed it to be Grace, and was about to ejaculate 



her name j but recollecting the occasion of his retarn, he sighed 
deeply and proceeded to his destination. 

Alas I it was not Grace Cavendish whose figure he had seen. 
She was lying in that chamber, dead. 

On the morning of the wedding-day there was the intimation 
conveyed to the hall, that the minister was in waiting at the 
church to perform the ceremony ; but Lady Clara w«« so affected 
by tlie novelty of her situation, that she could not possibly 
summon resolution to quit her dressing-room. Lord Hatherleigh 
had been to her door and entreated ; the bridesmaids had alter- 
nately laughed at her emotion and been angry with her ; and at 
last the minister was compelled to send word that as he had 
other duties to perform, the marriage could not possibly take 
place that day unless the parties came immediately. This inti- 
mation had a suprising effect upon the nerves of the Lady Clara, 
who thought that she was now able to go through the solemn 
ceremony. Accordingly the bridal procession was formed. But 
instead of the merry wedding peal saluting their ears, when they 
arrived at the church, they were startled by the dull heavy sound 
of the funeral bell. The last solemn rites were to be paid to 
the dead also on that day, and the delay occasioned by Lady 
Clara's affectation had caused the funeral train to arrive just be- 
fore the bridal party. 

Lord Hatherleigh met the minister at the porch, and expressed 
his surprise and anger at this extraordinary circumstance. The 
minister mildly stated the facts as they stood. Lord Hather- 
leigh replied, " then let the wedding be solemnized immediately, 
that we may escape from this melancholy scene." 

*' My Lord 1" said the minister, "under this sacred roof 
their is no respect of persons. I have a duty previously to fulfil. 
The last solemn rites must be performed to the dead. 

" Whose funeral is this,'' exclaimed the young nobleman, 
" which interrupts my nuptials ? 

"My Lord l" said the curate, " 'tis that of poor Grace 
Cavendish !" 

Lord Hathei-leigh started as though a serpent had stung him, 
and at that moment another stroke of the funeral bell sounded 
to him as a voice from the grave, accusing him of the guilt of 
his poor victim^ s death. He turned away, scarcely knowing 
what he did, and passing into the church sat silently, with his 
head resting upon his hands, until the funeral service was com- 
pleted. Then came his wedding ; and what a wedding ! As 
Lord Hatherleigh stood before the altar, it might have been 
noticed, if the attention of the spectators had not been engrossed 
by the bride, whose hysterical sobs and affected emotion were 
of a most extravagant character, that there was an unearthly 
wildness in his eyes, and that when called upon to pronounce the 
responses, he spoke them in a tone which indicated the absence 
of all consciousness of what he was doing. And when the cere- 
mony was over, and it was expected that he would have led his 
bride from the altar, he remained transfixed to the spot, gazing 
upon vacancy. 

• " Come," said a friend, smilingly admonishing the bride- 

" No !" cried the frenzied Hatherleigh, " I will rest here." 
The wild unearthly tone in which the words were uttered, 
alarmed the assembly. The bride shrieked, and was conveyed 
from the church in a fainting state. And it was now evident to 
all that reason had abandoned her throne in the brain of Lord 
HatherleigVi. He clung to the altar rails, and madly called upon 
the name of his young victim ; " Grace Cavendish ! — my bride, 
>ny lovely bride !" he exclaimed, " Come to me ; my only love ! 
—I cannot live without thee ]— I have used thee wrongfully, but 

all may be repaired. Grace Cavendish ! my innocent love 1 
See, I am at the altar, waiting !— Grace Cavendish ! my beloved, 
I will live and die with thee 1" 

Alas ! no Grace Cavendish replied to this frantic address ; 
she who bore that name was at rest in the silent grave. 

Physicians were sent for to Hatherleigh Hall, and they pro- 
nounced the bridegroom mad. His violence increased, and it 
was found necessary to resort to severe measures of restraint. 
For many months did he remain in this state, and then deatli 
released him from his sufferings. He died with the name of 
Grace Cavendish upon his lips. 


Bright as the gems in the golden mine, 

Fair as the morning beam. 
Men's faithless vows with brilliance shine, 

But vanish as a dream 1 
Oft times forgot as soon as made. 
And many a thoughtless girl betrayed. 

Beneath a mask they are concealed, 

A mask of pleasing hue. 
But soon the secret is revealed. 

And full exposed to view ; 
Deceitful as the stormy wave. 
Dark and gloomy as the grave. 

The vow of constancy they make. 

With a deceitful smile ; 
Fully determined to forsake. 

They promise to beguile ; 
They sigh, shake hands, and bid adieu, 
But soon forget their recent vow. 

Unstable as the tempest's blast. 

Their bark is borne aloof. 
By rolling waves, till tossed at last, 

Upon the raging surf ; 
Love once despised, will then impart, 
The pangs of sorrow to their heart. 


Oh, beautiful art thou my love. 

Oh, beautiful art thou. 
Thine eyes are tender as the dove's, 

And bright Uke stars that glow 
So sweetly from yon realms above, 

Upon this world below. 

Ah ! could I gaze for ever on 

That face and form so fair, 
And call thee mine and mine alone. 

What trouble then could sear 
The heart which thou had'st made thy throne, 

The bosom thou wert near ? 

J. F. 





" Is this a Gossip's tale ? — 

By mine honor, no ; — fori can vouch its truth." 

The Alcaid. 

" Don't tell me more ; I have heard quite enough. What 
mattei-s it now ? I am a ruined man, lost in honor, lost in 
reputation, and lost in all a man deems worth preserving. I 
say, tell me no more ; your words are not of comfort. No more, 
I say — " 

" But, Walter Harden, hear me. Ruined we are, and lost, 
I fear, for ever, in the world's repute ; but do listen to me. I 
have been a patient wife for nearly twenty years. I have 
v;atehed and toiled in your behalf, and whether rich or poor, you 
are still my husband. Now, you will listen to me, Walter, will 
you not — only a moment." 

" Well, speak on ; since I must — why patience is no virtue 
— say on, and spare me your curses ; perhaps I like them the 
less that I have deserved them. Speak on." 

" It is of our poor boy, I would speak. You loved Henry 
once ; he is so good, so patient, seems to forestal your every 
wish — '' 

" Well, well ; he does." 

" You remember, in an angry fit, that once you struck him 
with an adze upon the breast ; he spoke not then, though the 
iron had entered in his flesh, and the scar will be there even to 
his dying hour. You have ruined him now, he does not com- 
plain; why, therefore, bear your malice still against him." 

" I bear no malice, now ; let me see him, and then let us 

leave this cursed spot together, — a beggar, and a ; no 

matter what, the world is before me, and I will play a bold 
game, whether to lose or gain." 

The mother anxiously sought her son, but she sought in 
vain ; he had disappeared^gone, none knew whither ; without 
her blessing — all she had to give. His father had driven him 
forth in a moment of wild frenzy, and when his mother inter- 
ceded in his behalf she had little thought that her cup of misery, 
filled almost to the brim, had still more of bitterness in store. 
Her only son was lost to her ; the only joy the world had left 
her 'midst her sufferings, for, until now, she had not felt them 
in all their keenness. One consolation had remained, but even 
that was now lost to her for ever. The poor woman hid her 
face within her hands, and her loud convulsive sobs moved even 
the stern heart of her husband, until he advanced towards her, 
striving after his fashion to administer consolation. 

Walter Harden had been a merchant of some repute, in Corn- 
wall, and had started in the world with every prospect of suc- 
cess ; he had married a good and virtuous woman, who had 
loved him, alas ! for her own happiness, but too well ; and 
whether in sunshine or in sorrow she had not complained, how- 
ever much she felt that she was an injured woman. Harden 
had not prospered in the world, the fair means of growing rich 
that presented themselves in his business were not sufficiently 
qijick for him ; he strnve by speedier means the road to wealth, 
and lost all, became a beggar, alike in worldly goods, in honor, 
in reputation, and all that holds man to man in social inter- 
course ; he was an outcast to beg or starve for aught the world 
cared, but still were there many ready to assist the wife ; in all 
her misery she had'still preserved the esteem of the world ; but, 
poor Avoman, neither prayers nor entreaties could prevail upon 
her to leave her husband. The loss of her son was a heavy blow 

to her, since she could gain no tidings of him, and she felt that 
he was now lost to her for ever. 

In following the fortunes of her husband, she left her native 
town. Hisery for years was their only companion, her husband 
sinking deeper, year by year, in crime. In vain she prayed, 
besought him to tarn from his evil courses, told him how in 
some place unknown he might begin the world anew, and rise 
again to be respected. She spoke to one callous to every feeling, 
but still she could not force herself from him, and wherever the 
evil destinies of Walter Harden led him, his wife was still his 
hapless companion. 

Henry Harden, thrust from his father's house, in a moment 
of excited feelings, had taken his way to the port of Falmouth, 
which he entered just as a vessel was on the point of starting ; 
she was bound for the Indies, and the captain was anxiously 
looking for one of his crew, no where to be seen, unwilling 
to lose the favourable wind, and ill able to spare the missing 
man, he offered a tempting sum to any one who would take the 
absentee's place. The fishermen shook their heads, and laughed 
at the idea as preposterous. The captain's eye, however, 
rested upon Henry Harden, an active youth, then in his seven- 
teenth year, and addressing him, " What say you, my man, you 
are young ; the offer is a sudden one ; the road to wealth lies 
before you ; many a man has a chance once in his life to rise to 
wealth, this is yours ; come, what say you ; will you go ?" 

" I will ," replied the youth. 

" Spoken like a man ," replied the captain. " Your hand 
upon the bargain. It seems an honest one," said he as he 
grasped it in his own ; " now, mark my words, this is the 
luckiest hour of your life." 

" Hay heaven send it so," answered the youth, and a passing 
thought reminded him of his unhappy mother. " Should I 
ever become rich, what happiness will it be to me to raise you 
once more in the world, my poor dear mother." He had little 
time, however, for reflection ; the vessel was unmoored, and in 
a few minutes stood out to sea with a fair wind, and in the 
course of a few hours his native land had faded from his view. 

The captain was so pleased with his readiness and his earnest 
endeavours to make himself useful, that he determined to become 
his friend, and on his arrival at the destined port, recom- 
mended him in the highest manner to a merchant as a confi- 
dential clerk. He soon gained sufficient to become a trader on 
his own account, assisted by his former master, and a few 
years prosperous trading made him a man of some wealth. 
He had remitted, at various times, sums of money for his 
mother, but his agent had been unable to learn any tidings of 
her. This preyed upon his mind, causing him much anxiety, 
from the sudden manner he had quitted her, so that he deter- 
mined on leaving his affairs for some time, to be managed by 
his partner, during his return to England, and endeavour by 
every exertion in his power to discover her, and place her in 
comfortable circumstances, for he too well judged that his father 
could never prosper, and that nothing could prevail upon his 
mother to leave him. He accordingly embarked for England in 
the " good ship Hary and William," and everything seemed to 
promise a prosperous and speedy voyage. 


In one of the most bleak and inhospitable parts of Cornwall, 
where the stunted vegetationbetokens the wealth that lies beneath, 
but which nature has denied to the surface, and where one is 
led to wonder how the population are sustained, since nature 
has been so little of a prodigal disposition in the necessaries of 
life, however richly she may have given them mineral wealth, is 




■a remarkable headland, called the Wolf's Head ; there are 
several clusters of rock stretching out to the sea, which at high 
water, and especially during the spring tides, are scarcely per- 
ceptible, and are extremely dangerous to those unacquainted 
with the coast, from the distance they extend. From the Wolf's 
Head the land gently shelves down until the beach aifords some- 
thing the appearance of a bay, having a deceitful air of security 
to weather bound vessels. The beach has several cottages, 
inhabited chiefly by the miners ; and one, a small mean-looking 
inn, where refreshments were supplied to the miners, and occa- 
sionally to wayfarers, was called after the distinguishing feature 
of the place, " The Wolf's Head ;" it was inhabited by a man, 
who added to the profits of his iun by working occasionally in 
the mines, his wife carrying on the little business of the inn. 

The customers of the Wolfs Head had retired to their re- 
spective homes, buttoning well up their frieze coats to keep off 
the wind and rain, for though their distance was short, the 
storm raged with awful violence, driving the rain along like a 
sheet of water, the wind howling and moaning, so as to strike 
terror to the hearts of the superstitious miners, who were glad 
to be home and sheltered from the weather in good time. 

It was about midnight as the landlord of the Wolf's Head, 
after starting from a reverie in which he had indulged for some 
moments, threw a log of wood upon the fire, which, crackling 
and blazing, seemed to set at nought the awful storm without, 
and exclaimed to his wife, who was sitting at the opposite side 
of the rude hearth, " This is, indeed, a glorious night, Ellen !" 

" Oh, Walter, do not speak thus, consider those who are at 
sea such a night as this I" 

" Why, that is just what I am considering !" 

" May heaven be merciful to them !" 

" I'll tell you something ; I mounted the Wolf's Head to- 
day, and looking around me I saw a vessel straining every point 
to keep from off the rocks ; she had both her anchors out, but 
what of that ? she can't ride through the night ; the wind is 
dead upon the shore ; and, had she twenty anchors, she must go 
to pieces !" 

" And every soul will perish, unless Heaven be merciful to 
them ; oh ! it is dreadful to think about." 

" By her look and build she is in the India trade, and carries 
a rich cargo ; if she goes to pieces our fortunes are made." 

A gust of wind, more violent than any that had preceded it, 
shook the Wolf's Head, until the startled couple almost fancied 
it was about to be levelled with the ground ; and a pause of a 
few minutes ensued not unmixed with horror on both sides, a 
silent and fervent prayer only escaping from the woman. 

"That has done the business," exclaimed the man; she 
can't stand that though she were the " Flying Dvitchman." 

The woman listened anxiously a few moments, seeming as if 
something more than the wind had caught her ear ; " Surely," 
she exclaimed, " I heard some one crying for help." 

" You did," answered the man, " then she is oh the rocks ; 
give me my mining axe ; quick, I say." 

"No, no ; not that — take a lantern, it will serve them better." 

" Think you I'm a fool," he replied, and snatching his axe, 
he hastily quitted the cottage." 

" Oh, Walter, Walter 1" she exclaimed, " What are you about 
to do." 

Walter Marden hastened to the water's edge, and perceived 
as he had too well judged that the vessel had rounded the Wolfs 
Head and gone to pieces on the reef ; portions of the vessel 
were violently driven on shore, and as violently driven back by 
the succeeding waves, until one wave stroncer than the rest 

had driven a spar further on the beach, and the next wave not 
reaching it had left it there ; Marden hastened towards it, and 
found a man had fastened himself to it ; he was apparently 
about five or six-and-twenty, strong, but nearly exhausted from 
the efforts he had made. Seeing Marden approaching, he be- 
sought his assistance, lest another wave should bear him back. 
Marden was about to stretch forth his hand, when he perceived 
fastened round the neck of the struggling man a small leathern 
case, which he at once knew must contain property of some 

" I will help you," he replied, *' but first give me the case 
round your neck." 

" You would not rob me, surely ? is this the hospitality of 
my native land." 

" Give me the case, I say ; give it me at once, I say, or else — 

" Well, ruffian, or else '' 

" My axe shall give it me without further trouble !" 

" And you would murder me ; Oh, God, that I should have 
escaped the perils I have, to meet my fellow-creatures in such a 
form as this." 

The man, however, had partly managed to raise himself with- 
out assistance, when Marden springing towards him, endeavoured 
to force the case from him, but failed in the attempt ; the ship- 
wrecked man in his endeavours to preserve his property, had 
fallen on one knee, partly from weakness, and partly from the 
attack. Marden drew back, and, raising his axe with his whole 
force, would have directed it against him, but his ai m was sud- 
denly restrained from behind 

The clouds had passed away, and the moon shone with unusual 
brightness on the beach, shewing plainly the work of destruction 
that had taken place, and Marden saw that it was his wife, who, 
unperceived by him, had followed from the cottage. 

" Fool !" he exclaimed, and angrily disengaging himself from 
her weak efforts, he raised the axe a .second time with deadly 
intent, when a cutlass blow from a powerful arm laid him pros- 
trate on the beach. 

"Take that you sinner do!" exclaimed a rough-looking 
sailor, whose dripping appearance plainly betokened how recently 
he had emerged from the sea, " and make the best use as you 
can on it ; I was once before shipwrecked on this infernal coast, 
and then I saved my traps only for a set of hungry sharks, now 
this time I only saved my cutlass, and a hungry shark has got 
that too. I was just in time, your honour ; but bless me, how 
that woman stares at your honour — she seems some how to 
'cognize you." 

She had, indeed, been looking with fixed gaze on the young 
man in whose behalf she had interfered, until she with much 
earnestness, exclaimed "Tell me, I beseech you, is yourname — " 

" Henry Marden !" 

" It is, indeed, my son, my own dear boy !" 

" My mother !" he replied, and the two were instantly locked 
in each other's arms. 

" Well this issummat out of the common way," rejoined the 
sailor, " its quite a nautical drammy." 

" And my father!" eagerly exclaimed Henry Marden, whilst 
his mother, almost with the quickness of thought, flew to the 
body of Walter Marden, and with a convulsive effort, replied, 
" He is dead, oh, my poor Walter, is this the end of all your 

"Why you see,Marm," said the sailor, " when I was aboard 
the ' Dromache,' seventy-four, the doctor says to me, Jim Bar- 
nacle, whenever you uses your cutlass, always strike to the 
centre, and you'll do the business 'fectuaily but as I live 



here's a lot more of these shipwrecking sinners a-coming, 
so take care of yourself and let's give 'em the best reception 
we can ; we can't give them a broadside, but we'll give it 'em 
alongside, so here goes." 

It was, however, only some of the miners who came really to 
render any assistance in their power, and by their aid the body of 
Walter Marden was conveyed to the Wolf's Head, and shortly 
after laid in its last resting place ; immediately after the last 
-offices were over, Henry Marden and his mother left Cornwall 
with tlie prospect of brighter and happier days for both ; nor 
was Jim Barnacle (almost the only survivor from the ill-fated 
wreck) forgotten on the occasion ; as he returned with Henry 
.Marden to India, where he became master of a small coasting 
vessel, and was happy enough afterwards to steer clear of all 
rwreckers, " and sich like sinners." 



Weep not ! thou hast no cause for tears, 

Thy life is far too young : 
Sorrow may come with future years, 
And all her blighting cares and fears 

May o'er thy path be flung. 

Weep not ! till thou hast felt the pain 

That springs from injured love ; 
Yet then thy tears are all in vain, 
They cannot win him back again ; 
Thy grief they only prove. 

Weep not 1 till time bath o'er thee sped. 

And stolen thy youthful bloom, — 
Chequered with grey thy lovely head ; — 
Then, when the roses all are fled, 
'Tis time enough for gloom. 

Yet, wepp not then ! thou still wilt have 

That which ne'er knows decay , 
Though time doth take what nature gave. 
And beauty blooms but for the grave, 
Virtue will live for aye. 

The ills of life whate'er they be, 

Bring scarcely cause for tears ; 

When hope and joy the bosom flee. 

Bright thoughts of immortality 
Our dreary sojourn cheers. 


This, Sophy, is thy natal day! — O may thy coming years 
Prove happy as the vanish'd ones — and may no sorrowing tear? 
Obscure thy lustrous, laughing eye, no sighs dwell in thy breast, 
No thorns be on thy pillow, to mar thy youthful rest ; 
O ! may thy slumbers be as light as down upon the air. 
And may thy destiny be bright,, as hues the flow'rets bear ; 
May every sorrow of thy heart, pass quickly as the wind 
Which passeth o'er the distant seas, and leaves no trace behind, 
Save those which make the mariner more tranquil in the storm,, 
Such be the traces they may leave to meet affections balm. 


" All that glitters is not gold ; 
Many a man his life hath sold. 
But my outside to behold." Shakspeare.- 

The above has been my mottO', since I came to years of ob- 
servation and thought. " Never trust to appearances," I would, 
whisper in the ear of the fond (foolish) girl, who drinks in and 
believes every word " dear George" chooses to utter at her side. 
The same caution I would give to the purchaser of that black 
mare ; she's a fine creature to look at, but, perhaps, the white 
hoof may peep out in a few days, when the colouring has worn 
off. " Never trust to appearances," 1 would say to the deaf 
old lady who feels so grateful to the dark handsome young 
man, who so kindly assists her over the crossing. He's very 
polite, but she may miss her purse when she gets on the other 
side of the road. 

" Never trust to appearances," I would urge again, to the 
sincere lover, who fancies the " angel" will be always seraphic, 
as much so after the wedding as she is now before it. 

My motto, however, was not Frank Moore's, when he threw 
himself into a long stage coach, at the Elephant and Castle. 
Appearances were all one to Frank, for he took every thing in 
this world on the sunniest side ; and. on this occasion thought 
the sun could not have sent forth beams brighter in all summer 
than those glances which shot from the large dark eyes of his 
opposite fellow-traveller. Of course it was a lady.. 

She certainly was pretty ; her forehead was perfectly white, 
her cheek perfectly pink, and her lips (such tempting ones) per- 
fectly red, together with eyebrows arched, lashes long, long jet 
ringlets, Euid eyes — such eyes ! — of the same hue !. 

Long before they had rattled past the twelfth mile-stone, 
they had become as old friends ; no one else was inside, so they 
had the conversation all to themselves. Frank chatted, and 
paid the most extravagant compliments to the little beauty op- 
posite ; and she, in return, laughed and displayed her fine white 
teeth, and declared he was ridiculing her, and then, putting on 
a pretty demure look, added, " She detested flattery and despised 

They then turned rational, and told each other who they were, 
what they were, and where they were going ; what for, who 
for, and why for ; admired the scenery — a barren black heath ! 
the day — wet, windy, and cold! the road — full of ruts, puddles, 
andstones ! and then they laughed at the mistakes they hadmade. 

Evening was drawing on,, and so was the end of their 
journey. Frank had discovered that the lady's name was 
Lucy Ashford, and that she had just escaped, for the holidays, 
from the trammels of a boarding school, and was now going 
home to her guardian, who had the care of her and ten thou- 
sand pounds beside ! She was going to stop at , not 

quite so far as he was going, where she expected "the carriage" to 
i)e waiting for her. When Frank Moore took her hand and 
asked, in a peculiar tone, would she recognise her fellow-travel- 
ler when he called on his return back (for it was business 
brought him that road) she looked down and began counting all 
the flowers she could on her dress, and then looked up with a 
sunny smile, and a " trust he did not think her so ungrateful as 
to refuse seeing him, after his great kindness to a young unpro- 
tected girl, and a perfect stranger." A pressure of the little 
fingers which mingled with his own, was the "return of thanks" 
he gave to this kind speech. The conversatioa. took a third; 
turn, and this time it was getting romantic. 



She liked music ; he adored it. She loved singing ; he idolized 
it, when it was by a voice he loved. She enjoyed dancing ; so 
did he, with a nice girl for a partner. She admired a moon- 
light night ; so did he, with a lady companion, taking a walk. 
In short, she liked flowers, poetry, plays, sketching, the water, 
the earth, the sky, the clouds, the stars, the moon, the sun, the 
winds, gardens, shrubberies, fields, mountains, rocks, land, sea, 
birds, beasts, and fishes ; she liked anything and everything ! 
and so did he ! It was wonderful how both their tastes agreed. 
She had never met with a single soul or body in the whole wide 
world's range before, whose opinions assimilated so well with 
he ri. Nq more had he ! She had as yet felt alone — as one — 
a gi-iig by herself, amid the busy plays, acts, and scenes of life's 
theatre. So had he ! But now he felt there was something 
left to live for in this cold world ; one reward to anticipate, which 
would urge and encourage him on through the dry unromantic 
drudgery of business. So said she ! and blushed. 

" Then, I may," whispered Frank, " hope that-^" 

" Oh ! what's that," interrupted the lady, as a violent shock 
of the coach almost threw them oflF their seats. Another shock, 
and down went the vehicle on its side, cutting short Frank's 
soft speech. 

" Oh ! gracious ! my teeth !" shrieked Miss Ashford, as 
another jerk came, and Frank rather roughly struck her in the 
mouth with his elbow. 

Evening had some time set in, dark and gloomy as it could 
possibly be in the miserable month of November. The coach 
had struck against a high embankment of earth, and tipped 
over. They bad no lights, for the town where they usually 
stopped at for them was some miles distant. A small villaere 
about a mile and a half across some ploughed fields, was the 
nearest refuge they had from the pitiless rain which now poured 
down in an unrelenting torrent, I'he only conveyance— their 
legs ! for the hind wheel had been detached in the overthrow. 
When they opened the coach, Frank Moore and Miss Ashford 
were extricated ; and the villagers assembled all laughed at their 

It was a fortunate thing that it was dark, for Frank's anger 
was rising, and he woujd have knocked some of the merry ones 
down in the road, He could not see where to strike with 
effect, but he blustered, and stormed about their rudeness to the 
lady. At length poor Miss Lucy linked her arm within Faank's, 
and begging him to be calm, proposed finding their way to the 
village, across the fields. Frank agreed to this, and away they 
went, followed by the laugh of all the other passengers, whq 
^erp going to stay till the guard came back with lights. 

The rain beat in their faces, and supplied the means of refresh- 
ing them. To all Frank's gentle inquiries, if his lovely com- 
panion was hurt ? the lady returned but a low murmured an- 
swer ; although he bent his head down to catch the words he 
pould scarcely make out what she said. He fancied that she 
felt timid at being in such a lonely place, and as he refrained 
from dravi'ing her arm closer around his own, he felt redoubled 
respect for her modest delicacy. 

Their feet were clogged with mud, and thoroughly drenched 
and wet to the skin, they at last dragged themselves over the 
third field, and walked into the only inn in the place. Frank 
then turned round to the beauty, who hiid clung to his arm for 
the last ten minutes, and asked, in his softest tone, how she 
felt after her pleasant walk. 

" How ! What ! Who can it be ? Who are you ?" stammered 
our hero, looking aghast at the lady. M'as it her ? Was it 
the little beauty ; the lovely creature ! the angel ! the sweet 

girl ? Was this the lady who had been his companion in the 
coach ? she who had entranced his senses ? Was this his fel- 
low-traveller ? Was it she ?" 

He could not say that it was ! still there was the very dress 
he had looked at several times in the course of the day ; the 
same shawl ; the same bonnet ! But, oh ! how crushed, bent, 
and broken. But her face ; could it be the same ? A square 
inch of white here, another of pink there ; one lip with but a 
tiny red spot on it, the other with none at all ! The rest of her 
countenance was all of a wainscot colour — polished — varnished 
wainscot ! And then, the teeth ! Where were they ? Where 
were those even, shining, pearly teeth ? Where could they be ? 
Had she swallowed them ? Had he knocked them down her 
throat when his elbow struck her in the coach ? 

The coachman and passengers at that instant came into the 
house, and the former, politely stepping up to the lady, and 
with as much gravity as he could assume, asked the unfortunate 
creature, amid the ill-suppressed titterings of the persons pre- 
sent, if the articles he held in his hand belonged to her? 
displaying, at the same time, a long lock of black hair, which 
had been a ringlet ; and a set of the finest ivory teeth the 
ingenuity of man had ever produced. 

The lady uttered a shriek ; and, snatching the lost articles 
from the coachman's fingers, rushed from the public room and 
sought refuge in a bed chamber, till the coach was ready to 
resume its journey. 

Long and loud were the jests passed upon the miserable 
victim of ill fortune, 

Frank Moore, of course, determined to stop where he was, 
and finish his journey some other time. From that time, he 
seldom judged woman by her appearance. A fine complexion 
raised doubts in his mind that it was not natural ; white teeth, 
of their being false ; and glossy curls, that they were once the 
property of the hair-dressser ! 

Could I have been a small mouse under the coach seat, I 
would have nibbled the calf of his leg, and squeaked — " Never 
trust to appearances." M. A. S. 


By Cawdor Somerset. 

No. I. 
'•How wilt thou meet me ?" 

How wilt thou meet me 
In future days, when to thy altered eyes 
Mine image shall arise ? 

Wilt thou, then, only greet me 
As one — a stranger to thy sight and heart. 
Or wilt thou turn away, and scornfully depart ? 

How wilt thou meet me. 
When to those haunts of fashion I return, 
Where first began to burn 

The love that still would greet thee 
With fond endearments ? — Why should I awake 
From dreams I only woo'd and cherished for thy sake : 

Perhaps thou'lt meet me 
As the fond sunshine meets the faithfvd brook — 
And with a tender look 

That tells me thou can'st greet me 
With love renewed '. — Oh ! bid me, bid me dwell 
Once more within my heart, nor take a last farewell ! 




Love is poetically described as the highest and best of human 
passions ; it is supposed to be felt by most people, it is talked 
of by all people, and yet by very few is it understood. It is 
omnipotent, mastering all other passions. According to the 
different operations of love in our bosoms, we are furious or 
tame, compassionate or revengeful, animated with hope or tor- 
tured by despair. By love the proudest of men are converted 
into abject slaves. By love those who have the meanest opinion 
of their intellects are inspired with towering ideas and high 
pretensions. Love levels all ranks ; does away with all dis- 
tinctions ; even the old miser, when love has thawed his icy 
heart, throws about his money with wild profusion. Love is 
certainly productive of the greatest happiness in life, if the 
individuals in whom it is inspired be capable of keeping alive 
the fire from which it proceeds ; if that fire be suffered to go out, 
it can never be relighted ; and it can only be kept alive by hold- 
ing all the other passions in subjection. Here we arrive at the 
reason why there are so few happy marriages. Young ladies, 
as well as young gentlemen, who think the toil of catching 
hearts a pleasure, take no pains to retain them when they are 
caught. They can master their passions before marriage, and 
be very amiable, and gentle, and everything else that is delightful, 
but afterwards they grow careless and indifferent ; the temper, 
before cunningly concealed, now peeps out; the little attentions, 
trifling in themselves, but forming together a powerful fascina- 
tion, are offered no longer ; the object, indeed, which no pains 
were thought too great to win, is neglected, and then people 
complain of their partners, and say that there is no true hap- 
piness in the world 1 

Before individuals who thinktheyknow what love is, enter the 
married state, they should ask themselves— What is it in the 
object beloved which inspires the belief that that object is better 
than all the world beside ? You ought to be able to do this ; 
for it is a very foolish action either to marry without love, or to 
love without reason. Is it beauhj ? Beauty is only skin deep, 
and sometimes covers a heart deformed by vice and ill temper. 
Beauty is a poor thing, unless it accompanies something far 
better than itself, and that will long outlive it. To marry only 
for beauty, would be like buying a house for the nosegays in 
the windows. Do you prefer the individual because of his or 
her elegant and attractive manners and accomplishments ? Re- 
member, all is not gold that glitters ; beauty, wealth, elegance, 
and accomplishments, are very excellentand delightful auxiliaries, 
but very indifferent principals. In marriage, you require not 
only what will look well, and please a company, but what will 
also be to you as the light of your life, and will afford comfort 
and consolation in hours of care, and troiible, and adversity. 

Then, again, it should be enquired whether the individual 
beloved is of a corresponding age, temper, and habits ; for 
people may be very good in themselves, who are not suitable to 
each other ; and two people who have been used to different 
ways of living must have an uncommon share of good temper 
and forbearance, if ever they make each other happy in the 
married life. " Marriage, with peace and piety, is this world'^s 
paradise ; with strife and disagreement, it is this life's 


One of the talented Miss Beauclerks has written some 
" golden rules," which have much wisdom as well as wit in 
them. " In early life," says this fair star of the fashionable 
world, " let your children be instructed in every accomplishment 
suited to females. If they have not an innate taste for music. 

let it be an acquired one. Some men prefer a clever wife to a 
pretty one. The daughter must not be a proficient in more 
languages than the mother. Conversations may be carried on 
in foreign tongues, full of important matter to the young lady 
and chaperon ; which, if the latter is unacquainted with the 
language, might be productive of much harm. When told your 
daughter is lovely, do not contradict that opinion, it seems only 
like affectation, denying what is really the case ; besides, the 
world is always very willing to detract from the merit possesseil 
by any individual. Never speak ill of another person's daughter : 
it can do no good, and appears envious. Every one is lovely in 
the eyes of their respective admirer. Young ladies should not 
be seen too frequently by the person you wish to interest in their 

' A maid oft seen, a gown oft worn, 
Are disesteemed, and held in scorn.' 
" The old adage of * hot love soon cold,' I have often found to 
be true. That which has been kindled with haste, seldom retains 
its heat long. It is absolutely necessary that a chaperon be 
perfectly well acquainted with the peerage, in all its intricacies 
and details. The debutante should likewise have a slight know- 
ledge of that important work. Shakspeare must have laboured 
under a temporary aberration of intellect, when he wrote, 
' What's in a name ?' Surely the names of Howard, Fitzroy, 
Russell, Lennox, Montague, &c., &c., will bear the palm over 
those of Brown, Johnson, Thompson, Figgins, &c., &c. If a 
girl unfortunately takes a fancy to a man, unfit to be her hus- 
band, it must not be noticed. ' Love turns the more fiercely 
for obstructions.' If the passion increases, talk the subject over 
liehtly— detect some feature he possesses not quite in harmony 
with the rest of his person— criticise, and laugh at it ; for 
Addison says, ' Ridicule, perhaps, is a better expedient against 
love, than sober advice.' Beware of younger sons ; they are a 
race especially patronized by girls, who are not aware of the 
danger of such proceedings. In general society they are of use 
to call the carriage, take the mothers to the supper-room, 

&c., &C." :, . ^ ^v 

These witty remarks form an agreeable pendant to the n.ore 
serious of these desultory thoughts on love and marriage, which 
may probably have the effect of inducing many to think .a J.ttle 
before they take that step which can never be retraced. 



Methonght last night I saw a face 

Familiar to mine eye ; 
And fancy taught me then to trace 

A world of constancy. 

It echoed thoughts that seemed to flow 

In unison with mine ; 
And memory refuses now 

Their sweetness to resign. 

It murmured vows which I believed, 

Of friendship and esteeem ! 
But wiser heads have been deceived,— 

'Twas nothing but a dream ! 

Countess of WoorxEN- 




The fairy's tale was quickly told — 
Of love that could forsake ; 

Of a fond heart that beat too true, 
And then could only break. — L.E. L. 

There were no red roses once ; they were all white ; — they 
■were the flowers of innocence, and fairies used to dwell in their 
sweet bosoms when they made themselves homes of love and 
studied conjugal felicity. The rich white flowers, bending with 
their excess of beauty and fragrance, were devoted to the young 
lovers — married ones— and this was the inducement held out to 
bachelors to alter their condition ; and a powerful inducement 
it was, as the clusters of fairy-peopled roses testified. 

It was delightful to walk among the flowers then, thus fairy- 
peopled as they were, for the inmates of the roses took especial 
pains with their delightful habitations, and roses were more 
beautiful than they have ever been since, and their perfume 
more delicately sweet. And the young fairies as they sported in 
the moonlight could hear the sweet songs of love in the hearts 
of the roses, and then how the fairy youth and maidens longed 
each to have a rose to themselves ! 

It happened that Azile, one of the most charming of those 
fairy maidens, was wooed by the Prince Amor, a youth of the 
blood royal, of exceeding great personal beauty, and vanity equal 
to if. He was enamoured of Azilc as he had before been of 
other beautiful fairies, and as he had many a time and oft 
before found the work of conquest easy, he made light of the 
triumph he gained over Azile's heart. The fairy ladies were 
too easily won by a fine figure and graceful manners, and they 
were not singular in that respect, as experience in a more en- 
larged race may show. If ladies were only half as cruel as they 
have a reputation for being, they would find their lovers kinder. 
But this is a digression ; let us return to fairy-land. 

The Prince Amor was a handsome fellow ; he had travelled 
far and met only smiles and gladness wherever he went ; he had 
some lovely companions among the blue bells, and over the land 
of lilies he held sovereign sway. O 1 what delight filled the 
hearts of the female part of the fairy community, when he would 
condescend to dance with them upon the green in the beams of 
the silver moon, or in the softer radiance of the mjTiad stars 
which studded the firmament like lamps hung there to illuminate 
their midnight revels. What it was that made the Prince resolve 
upon marrying is not positively known ; but having rambled 
long among other flowers, it is supposed that he wished to 
repose in the heart of the home set apart for wedded love. He 
was noticed frequently wandering among the roses, though he 
took pains to conceal himself, and always sought his opportunity 
when the rest of the fairies were covered up in their flowers 
asleep, or sailing through the air on the downy clouds ; and at 
last he resolved upon uniting his fate with Azile's, and having 
a rosy home. 

Azile was a meek and gentle creature ; she would have been 
the idol of a fairy of her own condition and gentle way of think- 
ing ; but Amor was too much above her, and his thoughts were 
too wild for constancy ; though he was overpowered with the 
delights of his new home while its novelty lasted, the beauty 
and the fragrance of the dwelling soon began to decay in his 
estimation, and although the devoted Azile exerted herself to 
the utmost of her power to increase the attractions of their 
home, and lured the sweetest song birds to warble at their gate^ 

and got the night passing fairies to leave the richest dew pearls 
for her Amor's morning repast, he grew tired of the rose, and 
even of Azile. 

She saw that his affection was diminishing, and she fell at his 
feet and wept. Her tears were eloquent, and Amor was moved 
by them. He resolved to love his Azile dearer than ever, and 
to dismiss the thought of wandering from the home, irradiated 
by the sunshine of her love. 

But we all make very good resolutions, only as it would seem 
to have the pleasure of breaking them. The very next night 
after this sudden fit of virtue and tenderness. Prince Anor re- 
mained away from his home. The fairies had no Parliament, 
and, therefore, Amor could not escape from his Azile's rebuke, 
by saying public business had kept him from home ; but it, 
happened very fortunately for him, that his father, the king, was 
in a very delicate state of health, and Amor's absence was 
readily set down to his filial affection which had fastened him to 
his sick parent. 

But the king recovered, and Amor's stayings-out were more 
frequent than ever. Now Azile was very beautiful ; and though 
the husband of her heart's love neglected her, there were a 
thousand others ready to offer her the most polite attentions. 
She was as prudent as she was beautiful, however, and never 
by word, or look, or thought, gave her husband cause to doubt 
her constancy. But she could not keep admirers from her door ; 
nor could she prevent them from expressing their admira- 
tion of the beauty and fragi-ance of the dwelling where her 
heart and its affections were enshrined ; and frequently would 
some of the least thoughtful of the fairy gallants come with 
music at night, and serenade the neglected wife, as she lay in a 
curled up rose-leaf, looking out, but in vain, for the return of 
her faithless Prince. 

At length some malicious rival whispered these things into 
Prince Amor's ear, and the Prince being very excitable and cre- 
dulous ; he became furious. There is nothing more terrible in 
existence than a jealous husband. Prince Amor was advised to 
watch his lady closely ; and he, silly fairy, determined so to do. 
Now it happened that the brother of Azile, who had been 
dwelling in far-av.ay lands, returned to the scenes of his child- 
hood at that very time. He sought his sister's home. He 
found her, and in tears. He had never seen a tear before in 
those lovely eyes. " How is this, dear sister .'" he exclaimed. 
"In tears ! You that were used to be so gay, so happy ! What 
is the cause of this unhappiness .'" 

For a wlule the gentle Azile evaded his enquiries ; but he read 
the secret in her pale cheek, her equivocating replies when he 
questioned her respecting her husband, and by degrees he 
obtained a full confession — that her young heart was breaking, 
' As woman's hearts have broken— and still break.' 
" You shall not remain in this abode of sorrow, sister dear," 
said the brother of the neglected wife, " You will die of grief." 
" But I shall die, brother, in my home of love. I cannot 
leave it. Though he forsakes me who once filled this home with 
the light of love, I cannot forsake it ; my heart is fixed upon it. 
I have made companions of every leaf; I have found consola- 
tion here, for these leaves witnessed my happiness, and while 
among them I can fancy the joys that are past, and feel a 
melancholy pleasure in remembering them, and while I remain 
here, my dreams are happy. No, I cannot — do not ask me, 
bi-other, to forsake my home." 

" Well, dearest sister, I will not further insist, but I will 
see Prince Amor to morrow, and remonstrate with him on his 


And the brother prepared to take his leave ; he threw his arm 
round Azile's neck, and kissed her forehead fervently, and while 
locked in each other's arms, Prince Amor, who had never seen 
his wife's brother, and who had watched them from the portal, 
rushed upon them, and in an instant his dagger was buried iu 
Azile's heart, and her life-stream covered the leaves of the rose ; 
and no after shower washed the stain away. 

The Prince was soon made sensible of his folly and his crime, 
and he died by his own hand ; and from that blood-stained rose 
others sprung, and their fragrance were sweeter than the rest, 
for they were fraught with the purity and innocence of Azile — 
whose constancy and suiferings were long the theme of praise 
and pity in fairy-land. Amyntori 





When the white cliffs of England are fading to view, 

And objects grow dim on her shore ; 
When the waters around thee shall deepen their blue. 

And the partings of friendship are o'er ; 
When the wind woos the sails that shall bear thee along, 

Far, away, from tlie land of thy birth ; 
When sad silence usurps the gay place of the song. 

And sorrow is seen 'stead of mirth ; 
When those by thy side may affect a bright smile, 

While for sorrow their hearts are in tone, 
Like the sunshine of April, it may dazzle awhile. 

But when past — thou wilt think of thy home. 

Of the father who guarded— the mother who lov'd, 

With passion so fervent and pure ; 
So fond — so devoted — thy waywardness prov'd, 

Could none but a mother endure. 
Of thy sister's last kiss, as she bade thee farewell, 

When she tremblingly clung to thy arm. 
And dried the hot tears which, fast gathering, fell 

From her eyes, in this sorrowing storm. 

But, O say, who can tell thee what changes shall come. 

Ere thou may'st revisit thy land ? 
Say, what forms shall be gone from thy now happy hearth 

What sorrows shall wait on thy hand ? 
Shall the gayjoyous faces thou leav'st round thy hearth, 

Be there when the waves bear thee back ? 
Thy fond parents, thy kindred, be still in life's path, 

Or vacancy dwell where they sat ? 
O, there's none can unravel the long thread of fate ; 

To mortal has never been given 
The power to read ought of their forthcoming state ; 

But, William, 'tis written in heaven ! 


Reason. — He that follows its advice has a mind that is 
elevated above the reach of injm-y ; that sits above the clouds in 
a calm and quiet ether, and, with a brave indifference, hears 
the rolling thunders grumble and burst under his feet. 

She comes ! she comes ! with her garlands of flowersj 

By the laughing zephyrs borne ; 
She hath call'd to the buds in a thousand bowers 

With the earliest blush of morn ! 
She hath flung her smiles o'er the gladsome earth, 

And the birds have waked their lay ; 
And the bee hums forth her joy at the birth 

Of May— sweet May ! 

The sun looks down through a brighter SKy, 

The moon rides in deeper blue ; 
And the gems of night watch more lovingly 

O'er those who are met to woo ! 
And the maiden's heart hath a wilder beat — 

Her step is more light and gay ; 
And the glance of her eye it is bliss to meet« 

In May — sweet May ; 

There's a voice of joy on the heathy hills, 

They 're changing their coats of brown ; 
There's the bubbling laugh of the silvery rills 

As they Joyously rush down I 
And the laverock's melody sounds more clear 

When she greets the morning's grey — 
For the sweetest season of all the year 

Is May^sweet May 1 

Oh 1 beautiful May ! thou wert wont to be 

Welcom'd with tabret and lute ; 
And thy pole was deck'd out right merrily — 

But those sounds of joy are mute I 
And the youth that danced on the village green 

Like a dream have pass'd away ! — 
Alas ! for the good old times we have seen 

In May — sweet May 1 


*rell me, ladies, where to find 

A damsel kind and true ; 
She may possess some strength of mind« 

But must not be a blue. 
Her eyes must not be green or grey. 

But either blue or brown ; 
Her nose must turn the proper way. 

Not too much up or down. 
Her teeth must be like rows of pearls. 

Her lips fresh as a rose ; 
Her hair must hang in graceful curls, 

And not in plats or bows. 
I do not wish her to possess. 

For dress, too great a passion ; 
Though all young ladies must confess 

Tliey love the World of Fashion. 
Hands, feet, and ancles, all must show, 

A birth of high degree ; 
And with ten thousand pounds or so— 

That is the wife for me. 

K. L, K. 







&c. &c. &c. 


LONDON, JUNE 1, 1838. 

V^OL. XV. 








Oh ! long as may she wear the crown, 

And gracefully become the gem ! 
May no dark fortune ever frown 

Upon that regal diadem ! 
But happiness in her pure heart. 

Still linger ever fresh and green. 
And virtue all her worth impart, 

To happy England's youthful Queen ! 

The past month has been a very gay one in the Court of 
Loudon, the season progressing with uncommon brilliancy ; the 
presence of a young Sovereign at the head of the state is begin- 
ning to be sensibly felt, and the good health which her Majesty 
enjoys, the spirit with which she enters into the gaieties of the 
palace, the determination which she manifests to uphold the 
character for magnificence, which the English Court has always 
enjoyed, are the themes of general conversation. Her Majesty 
passes the mornings, after the business of the state is disposed 
of, in equestrian exercises, or carriage drives. Her Majesty has 
frequently rode out on horseback in the course of the month, 
attended by a numerous assemblage of ladies, lords, and gentle- 
men. It is one of the finest sights in the world to see the young 
and lovely Victoria attended thus by the elite of fashionable 
society. But the two great events of the month were the State 
Ball at Buckingham Palace, and the birth-day Drawing Room : 
and the first, as nothing like it has been witnessed in the 
English Court since the early days of George the Third, calls 
for detailed notice at our hands. We are assured, by a dis- 
tinguished nobleman, who participated in the Court enjoyments 
upon this great occasion, that the scene was one of unspeakable 
magnificence ; that, in fact, it realized a tale of oriental gran- 
deur. A correct account of the rooms has also been furnished 
to us, which may be considered necessary for ns to give, in order 

Vol. XV. 

that our readers may be enabled to form something like a cor- 
rect idea of the gorg.eonsuess of the scene. The company, as 
they arrived, proceeded through the vestibule and statue gallery 
(the former illuminated by a grand or-molu chandelier, suspended 
from the dome), to the green drawing room, a very splendid 
apartment, hung with pomona green silk damask draperies, and 
gold bullion fringe, divided by richly-carved gilt pilasters. This 
apartment contains several portraits of the members of the 
House of Hanover, and objects of vertu (cabinets inlaid with, 
precious stones, &c.), from Carlton Palace. The ceiling is richly 
enfretted in white and gold, and suspended from it are five rich 
cut glass lustres. Thence they passed to the throne room, which 
magnificent saloon was appropriated as a refreshment room ; it 
was not illuminated so soon as the other apartments, but sub- 
sequently presented one of the most splendid rooms of the whole 
suite. The hangings are of crimson silk, divided by richly-carved, 
gold pilasters, the ceiling to correspond. The alcove, forming 
an eighth portion of the room, is long, with crimson silk velvet 
draperies, and deep bullion fringe. Elaborate carved columns 
support the canopy above the throne, fi-om the proscenium of 
which project, in very deep relief, massive gold foliage and alle- 
gorical figures. The British arms are gorgeously emblazoned at 
two points of the frieze. A chandelier of great magnitude and 
splendour descends from the centre, and the tout ensemble is 
reflected a hundredfold by large mirrors, inlaid in folding doors, 
recesses, &c. Leaving the throne room, the visitors entered the 
Picture Gallery, which is about 180 feet in length, by 40 wide, 
and on this occasion was illuminated by five or nwlu chandeliers 
of the most costly fabrique. At the principal entrance there are 
two reclining statues, the most beautiful productions of Canova's 
chisel, a " Venus," and a " Hebe." This gallery also contains 
some of the rarest and most valuable paintings of the ancient 
masters, which, " amidst the gay and festive scene," evinced 
their powerful influence by attracting the attention of a very 
large portion of the company, amongst whom the foreign nobility 
were conspicuous. The gallery has communication with the 
whole suite, and here we leave the visitors. But we must 
describe the Grand S-iloon or principal Drawing Room, which is 
supported by Coriuthiau coluBins, formed of lapis lazuli, with 



gilt capital, and a rich cornice of mythological figures, and 
foliage in high relief. The ceiling is beautifully ornamented 
with lozenge compartments, from amidst which are conspicuous 
the rose, shamrock, and thistle. It was illuminated by a 
centre lustre, of great magnitude, and another in the semi-dome, 
over the beau-fronted window. The floor is inlaid with varie- 
gated satin and amboyna wood of various colours, resembling 
Mosaic, the centre forms a radiating star, the corners, the royal 
initials. Tbe yellow, or south dravring room, with the corres- 
ponding one, the north drawing room, were appropriated to 
dancing. Two splendid orchestras were erected, ornamented 
with white and gold draperies to correspond with the suite of 
hangings, each illuminated by magnificent chandeliers. The 
pilasters of red Sienna marble, with gold capitals, were multi- 
plied a thousand-fold by large mirrors. The other apartments 
\*ere the state dining rooms, the retiring, refreshment, and 
smaller dining apartments. The several recesses were orna- 
mented with fragrant and scarce exotics, consisting of pa;nia, 
camelia, &c. At a quarter past ten her Majesty entered the 
first ball room, Weippert's band striking up upon the Queen's 
entrance, " God save the Queen." Her Majesty was received 
by the Duke of Sussex, the Duchess of Gloucester, and other 
Royal relatives. About twenty minutes afterwards her Majesty, 
attended by the Lord Chamberlain and the members of the 
Royal Household, proceeded through the suite of rooms, receiving 
the homage of the numerous and distinguished guests, which 
her Majesty acknowledged with her customary grace and affa- 
bility. Her Majesty opened the ball, and honoured his Royal 
Highness Prince George of Cambridge with her hand in the first 
set of quadrilles, the music of which was from Le Domino Noir. 
Her Majesty danced with infinite grace and animation. Her 
Majesty subsequently proceeded to the north drawing room, 
where the Queen's own quadrille band were stationed in the 
orchestra. During the ball her Majesty danced quadrilles with 
the following noblemen : Prince Nicolas Esterhazy, the Mar- 
quess of Douro, the Earl of Uxbridge, Lord Morpeth, Lord 
Fitzalan, Lord Suffield, Lord Folkestone, and Lord Jocelyn. In 
the interval of the dances her Majesty and the Royal Family 
sat in a recess at the west side of the room, which was hung 
with white satin, embroidered in bouquets of flowers, and trim- 
med with silver fringe, with curtains suspended from the front 
on each side. The seats of crimson satin and gold were placed 
on a platform covered with a Persian carpet. At one o'clock, 
her Majesty and the Royal Family, followed by the company, 
passed into the supper room, where supper was served at tables 
extending round the room. Dancing was resumed after supper, 
and was continued until four o'clock, her Majesty joining in the 
last dance, and with uncommon spirit and animation. The 
ladies present were in rich court costumes, and most of the gen- 
tlemen appeared in splendid military or naval uniforms. Her 
Majesty was attired in a magnificent white satin slip, over which 
■wasasilver lama tunic, trimmed withsilverand white blonde lace ; 
an agraiffe on either side with maiden blush roses, studded in 
the centre with brilliants. Her Majesty wore on her left arm 
the insignia of the Order of the Garter, also the star in brilliants, 
and the ribbon of the Order. Head-dress of roses (maiden 
blush), the centre formed of brilliants, and a small bandalette 
confined the whole ; diamond drop earrings. The Duchess of 
Kent wore a rich white satin embossed dress, with chenille and 
silver flowers ; blonde floimce, with white and silver ribbons. 

The second great event of the " merry month of May" 
was the Drawing Room upon the 17th, the day fixed for the 
celebration of the anniversary of her Majesty's birth, when all 

the rank and fashion in London offered their congratulations 
at the foot of the throne. The proceedings were in no respect 
different from those of preceding Drawing Rooms, which have 
been described by us ; but the splendour of the costumes, and 
the quantity of personages present, served to make this one of 
the most magnificent court receptions that has ever occurred in 
the venerable Palace of St. James's. The company began to 
arrive at one o'clock, and in the course of two hours the centre 
suite of State rooms were crowded. The costume of the ladies 
was of the most elegant and magnificent description. The 
Knights of the several orders of knighthood wore their respective 
collars. The Foreign Ambassadors and Ministers, the Lord 
Chancellor, the Master of the Rolls, and the Speaker of the 
House of Commons, came in State, with their respective suites. 
Her Majesty and suite arrived from the new Palace, about two 
o'clock, and soon afterwards her Majesty received an address 
of congratulation from the Archbishops and Bishops in the Royal 
Closet. The Duchess of Kent came in State to the Drawing 
Room, escorted by a party of Life Guards. Her Royal High- 
ness was attended by Lady F. Hastings, Lady Cust, General Sir 
G. Anson, Lieut. -General the Hon. A. Upton, Captain the Hon. 

F. Spencer, and Lieut. -Colonel the Hon. H. Caradoc. Her 
Royal Highness's dress on this occasion was composed entirely 
of British manufacture. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, 
and Prince George of Cambridge, came in State, attended by 
Miss Kerr, Baron Knesebeck, and Colonel Cornwall. Their 
Royal Highnesses also entered the Palace by the Colour Court. 
The Duchess of Gloucester also came in State, attended by Lady 

G. Bathurst, and Colonel Sir S. Higgins, K.C.H. The Princess 
Augusta was present at the Drawing Room, attended by Lady 
M. Pelham and Sir G. Stephenson, G.C.H. The Duke of 
Sussex was also present, attended by Lord John Churchill. The 
Queen received the company in front of the throne ; the Royal 
Family were on the left of her Majesty, and on her Majesty's 
right stood the Noblemen and Gentlemen of the Household. ^On 
the steps of the throne, behind her Majesty, stood the Ladies of 
the Queen's Household, amongst whom were the Marchioness 
of Lansdowne, First Lady in Waiting ; the Countess of Charle- 
mont (in Waiting), the Marchioness of Tavistock, Lady Portman, 
and Lady Barham, Ladies of the Bedchamber ; Honourable 
Misses Murray (in Waiting), Cocks (in Waiting), Dillon, 
Cavendish, Spring Rice, and Paget, Maids of Honour ; Vis- 
countess Forbes (in Waiting), Hon. Mrs. Brand, Hon. Mrs. 
George Campbell, Lady Gardner, and Lady Caroline Barrington, 
Bedchamber Women. The Pages of Honour in Waiting were 
Lord Kilmarnock, Mr. Cavendish, and Mr. Cowell. The Queen 
was much fatigued at the end of the ceremony, but it was 
evident that the appearance of so many of the Court to congratu- 
late her upon the happy occasion, gave great satisfaction and 
delight to her Majesty. It was expected that ber Majesty would 
have visited the opera after the Drawing Room ; but expectation 
was, in this case, disappointed. 

The real birth-day of her Majesty was celebrated atthe Palace, 
on the 24th, when her M.ijesty completed her nineteenth year. — 
There was a State Ball at the Palace, on the same scale as the 
one above noticed. 

Her Majesty has also gratified the Court with a very delightful 
concert at Buckingham Palace, supported by the principal 
singers of her Majesty's theatre. All the Royal Family were 
invited, together with the Foreign Ministers and their Ladies, 
and a large party of the nobility and gentry. The grand saloon 
was fitted up for the concert, and the entire suite of Staterooms 
were thrown open on the occasion, with the exception of the 



Throne room, and was illuminated in the same brilliant manner 
as on the night of the State Ball. A quarter before ten o'clock 
the company began to arrive at the Palace, and were ushered 
into the concert room. Their Royal Highnesses the Princess 
Augusta and the Duchess of Gloucester, attended by Lady Mary 
Pelham, Lady Georgiana Bathurst, and Sir Benjamin Stephen- 
son, G.C.H., arrived at ten o'clock. Their Royal Highnesses 
were received in the grand hall by the Honourable Misses 
Dillon and Paget, Maids of Honour in Waiting ; Hon. Colonel 
Cavendish, Clerk Marshal ; Hon. General Sir William Lumley, 
Groom in Waiting ; and Lord Alfred Paget, Equerry in Waiting, 
who conducted their Royal Highnesses to the State rooms. The 
Duke of Sussex also arrived early. The Duke and Duchess of 
Cambridge, Prince George, and the Princess Augusta of Cam- 
bridge, came, attended by Miss Kerr, Colonel Cornewall, and 
Baron Knesebeck. Soon after ten o'clock her Majesty and the 
Duchess of Kent, with the rest of the Royal Family, passed 
from the north or yellow drawing room into the grand saloon. 
The concert then commenced. 

At twelve o'clock, between the first and second parts of the 
concert, her Majesty and the Royal Family entered the dining 
room, where supper was served. The sideboard in the recess 
contained a collection from the Royal service, of large and mag- 
nificent shields and salvers, interspersed with gold cups, embel- 
lished and enriched with precious stones, tastefully arranged on 
a back-ground of crimson. The concert gave the utmost satis- 
faction ; the singers being in fine voice, and evidently exerting 
themselves to the utmost of their power. 

The Queen has been several times to the opera in the course 
of the month, and once to the antient concert. 

The Queen Dowager may be said to live in quiet retirement 
at Marlborough House. We are happy to say that her Majesty 
continues well. 


It comes — it comes — with the bright geen leaf ; 
Away with sorrow, away with grief : 
It brings the fruit on the bended tree, 
And scatters it round in reckless glee ; 
It plays on the brow of the maiden fair, 
And parts with its fingers her raven hair. 

It comes — it comes — and it's minstrel's wing 
O'er the glassy lake is quivering 
With music, soft as the mellow strain 
Of zephyrs over the swelling main ; 
It gladdens the vales and floats along, 
And stream and mountain re-echo the song. 

It comes — it comes— like a fairy sprite, 
Arrayed in robes of gossamer white ; 
And the leafy canopies wave on high, 
With a smile for earth, and a kiss for the sky ; 
And it strides along in its kingly way. 
Like shadows that flit at the close of day. 

It comes — it comes — and the ripened grain 
Is wreathing crowns for its golden reign ! 
And the bright eye sparkles with liquid light, 
Like the star enthron'd on the brow of night ; 
And the teeming fields their offering bring 
At the sainted shriue of the Sximmcr king. 


It always aflFords us pleasure to be able to record the success 
of any member of the British aristocracy in works of litera- 
ture or art; and the high position which Lord Burghersh 
occupies in the fashionable world, renders it a most agreeable 
task to us, to notice his new opera of 11 Torneo ; a work which 
clearly establishes the claim of his Lordship to a place among 
the first musicians of modern times. Lord Burghersh may 
well be proud of his composition ; for there is no living author 
who has produced anything superior to it ; and we are sure that 
if his Lordship would sanction its public performance it would 
be eminently attractive. The opera was produced at the 
Hanover Square rooms ; and the numerous assemblage of rank, 
fashion, and professors who were present, by their unqualified 
approbation proved how well his Lordship had succeeded. The 
opera was originally produced at Florence, when Lord Burg- 
hersh was there representing the diplomatic interests of his 
country. The libretto, some of the poetry beirg from the pen 
of the accomplished Lady Burghersh, is well written, and 
presents enough of dramatic interest to fix attention and afford 
the composer scope for the delineation of conflicting passions. 
The " argument" subject refers to the days of chivalry, and is 
taken from English history. Alfred, brother to Amerigo, High 
Constable of the kingdom, having been overcome, and wounded 
in a duel by an unknown cavalier, was found by Edward, who 
came up a short time afterward, in such a pitiable state, that, 
although previously his enemy, he caused him to be conveyed, 
by the help of his esquires, to his own castle, and lavished on 
him every care that could relieve him, and restore him to 
health. Alfred recovered from the wounds he received in the 
duel, but his haughty disposition could ill brook having been 
humbled by Edward, nor could he endure to be indebted to him ; 
and being overwhelmed by this feeling, killed himself in the very 
room where Edward had received him, after having, however, de- 
clared in a letter, which he wrote, after this act of desperation 
that it was the effect of his free will. A certain Ethebald, the 
secret enemy of Edward, was the first who entered the room ia 
which Alfred was lying dead ; he saw the paper, concealed it, 
and then accused Edward as the murderer of Alfred. Edward, 
not knowing how to justify himself under the appearance of so 
much guilt, was obliged to save himself by flight from the rigour 
of the laws, leaving a young daughter to the care of one of his 
relations. Alfred left at his death a son, very young, who was 
received with paternal kindness by his uncle, who concealed 
him, and kept him in ignorance of his origin and of his rela- 
tions, the better to protect him from the hatred and the snares 
of his father's enemies. When grown up he presented him at 
Court by the name of " The Unknown," and entreated the 
King to proclaim a tournament in which the young cavalier 
might display his valour.. Edward took advantage of this 
favourable circumstance to return to London, after an absence 
of fifteen years, to see his daughter again, of whose fate he 
was ignorant, after the death of the relation to whom he had 
confided her. The arrival of Edward in London, on the day of 
the tournament, and the circumstances that led to the discovery 
of his innocence, form the plot of the drama. 

The orchestra and chorusses were selected from the students, 
associates, and professors of the Royal Academy of Music, of 
which Lord Burghersh was the founder, and in the prosperity 
of which he takes the deepest interest. The opera was thus 
cast : — The King of England, Mr. Stretton ; Helen, Mrs. H. 



Bishop ; Edward, Signer IvaNOFF ; Alberto, "The Unknown" 
Miss F. Wyndham. Tlie crverture, for unlike tlie composers 
of the modern Italian school Lord Burghersh has written one 
for his opera, is a very pleasing theme, which is wrought with 
infinite skill, and in a very agreeable manner. The opening 
chorus of knights and ladies celebrating the tournament is 
heroically treated, and introduces a clever sccna by Ivanoff, 
who save now and then a little inequality when using his falsetto, 
rendered it justice. A fine duet succeeds between Mrs. H. R. 
Bishop and Miss F. Wyndham, which was deservedly ap- 
plauded. Along scena, efficiently given by Miss F. Wyndham, 
precedes an elegant duet, charmingly sung by Mrs. Bishop and 
Miss Wyndham. Then followed a delightful " Vieni gentel 
donzella," replete with graceful phrases, and instrumented with 
remarkable softness and beauty. The choral singers gave it 
with a vivid perception of its melodious bearing, and T\'ith a nice 
observance of the light and shade. The next piece which excited 
a prodigious /wroj-e was a round " Rupido come il venio'' of sur- 
passing elegance. The subject is highly imaginative, and it is 
carried out with consummate skill. The blending of the four 
voices with the nicely -balanced orchestral accompaniments would 
alone stamp the reputation of the noble composer as a melodist 
and as a musician. It was deliciously sung, and every hearer 
rejoiced when it was repeated, in obedience to the universal call. 
A spirited finale closes the first act, in which the difTerent 
emotions of the dramatis persona, when Edward is arrested for 
the murder, were all clothed in intelligible phrases. There was 
considerable approbation bestowed at the close, and from no 
portion of the company was it more fervent than from the first- 
rate members of the profession who were present. In the 
second act the opening duet between Stretton and Mrs. 
Bishop is full of histrionic fire ; and judging from the efi"ect it 
produced, on the stage it would excite no small sensation. Mrs. 
Bishop has a lengthened scena, well adapted for the passing 
action, which she gave with an energy of which we had not be- 
lieved her capable when it is considered that she is a concert 
singer. One of the most lovely melodies we ever heard, " Bel 
raggio di luna," with harp obligato, was then breathed forth in 
silvery accents by Ivanoff. The remainder of the concerted 
music, including scenas by Miss F. Wyndham and Mr. Stret- 
ton, maintain the favourable impressions raised in the first act. 
It was indeed quite apparent through The Tournament that Lord 
Burghersh superadded to the lively sense of the melodious the 
scientific qualifications of a composer. His themes partake 
generally of two ingredients, simplicity and agreeableness. His 
instrumentation is not of the noisy, overwhelming school of the 
Italian composers of the day. The opera evidently imparted 
great delight to the company, and the quartet in the first act, 
and Ivanoff's air in the second would alone have repaid the 
trouble of sitting out The Tournament. Francois Cramer 
and Mr. Lucas efficiently led and conducted the orchestra. 
The four artists to whom the execution of the vocal music was 
allotted not only deserve great praise for their able exertionsL, 
but it is justice to add that they have advanced their own " good 

We should much like to hear the opera on the stage, as we 
are sure the effect would be materially increased by histrionic 

The room was crowded to excess. Their Royal Highnesses 
tlie Duke and Duchess of Cambridge were present, with & 
Icng list of fashionables. 

By Cawdor Somerset. 

No. II. 

" When night-dews are steeping." 

When night-dews are steeping 

The lilies in wet, — 
When blue mists are creeping 

O'er each minaret, — 
When moonlight awakens 

The Boolbool's soft song, 
The memory beckons 

My footsteps along ; 
For my soul, in that hour, revels wildly and free, 
And I rove 'mid the gardens of Fancy with thee ! 

When the stars, in their splendour, 

Light the path of the lover, — 

When young maids, grown tender, 

Their passion discover, — 
When fervency hushes 

Prudential urging?. 
And love robes in blushes 

The cheeks of fair virgins. 
My soul quits its cage, and roves gaily and free, 
'Mid the gardens of Fancy, in rapture, with thee ! 

When the pure moon is gleaming. 

And the proud sun hath set, — 
When fragrance steals, streaming, 

From the night- violet, — 
W^hen the mennaid reposes. 

Supine, on the surge, — 
When the bee 'mongst the roses 
Has ceased its sweet dirge, — 
My spirit shakes off all its cares, to be free, 
In the gardens of beautiful Fancy with thee ! 

When nuns tell their beads. 

In the dim convent-cell, — 
■^Tien the monk slowly reads. 

To the deep midnight bell, — 
When spirits are weeping 

O'er scenes, ne'er forgot, — 
When thou, dear ! are sleeping. 
Afar from this spot. 
My soul quits its prison, and gaily and free. 
In the gardens of Fancy, finds meeting with thee! 


Mrs. Anderson's Concert, at the Hanover Square Rooms, 
was most fully and fashionably attended, the programme pre- 
senting one of the best selections we have seen for some time. 
Her Majesty's private baud performed on the occasion, together 
with a full band selected from the King's Theatre of Philhar- 
monic concerts, by whom the overture to Euryanlhs was per- 
formed in fine style ; the principal attraction, however, was the 
hcnefciare herself, who played a new concerto by Mendelssohn 



HI the most finished manner. We are great admirers of Mrs. 
Anderson's playing, her execution is always neat and finished, 
and what in most players seems to be achieved with much diffi- 
culty and elaborate effort, is generally performed by her quietly 
and without any apparent effort ; she was also much and de- 
servedly applauded in Benedict, and De Beriot's duet from the 
Sonnambula with Blagrove ; and Beethoven's quintet for 
piano, oboe, clarinet, bassoon, and horn, was also a very spirited 
performance. Hinemeyer, the new flute player, performed 
a fantasia of his own composition ; he is one of the best per- 
formers we have had in this country for many years, and in his 
brilliant execution and the tone of his upper notes, reminds us 
forcibly of Nicholson. Labarre also performed a fantasia 
on the harp, taking one of the old Irish airs as his theme, and 
•working it through the various modulations in the most masterly 
manner. The vocal portions were supplied by Mile. Placci, 
Mrs. Bishop, Miss Hawes, Phillips, and Ivanoff ; 
and the concert afforded much satisfaction to a very crowded 

Mr. Doehler, the new pianist, has performed at several 
concerts in London ; he is put forth as the rival of Thalberg, 
but though indisputably a very clever performer, he has neither 
the grandeur nor expression of Thalberg ; but, like him, he 
plays his harmonics very full, using his left hand with much 
vigour, and freely employing his bass notes in the same manner 
by frequently taking up the air with them. There is much simi- 
larity in the style of playing ; but we think his friends do wrong 
in putting him forward as a rival to Thalberg. He has quite 
merit enough to rely upon himself, without inducing the public 
to draw comparisons by injudicious rivalry. 


A critical report of all the novelties at the 


" The Drama's laws the Drama's patrons give ; 
And they who live to please must please to live." 

HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE.— The Pun/ani has drawn 
better houses this season than when it was first produced, a 
convincing proof, were any necessary, that the beautiful airs, 
■with which it abounds, are better appreciated now they are so 
well known ; some of the would-be critics sneer at this opera, 
and talk of the beauties of Mozart, Mayer, and some of the 
older writers, wishing to restrict the opera boards to the per- 
formances of the old operas, but these are only critics who, 
declining in the vale of years, wish to bring back the opera to 
the days of their youth, the recollections of which were more 
pleasing to them ; the Subscribers, however, very wisely insist 
upon the new operas, and the management is always willing to 
give way to their wishes. Noryna was revived for the purpose 
of Albertazzi making her first appearance as Adelgisa, the 
part formerly performed by Assandri ; this was a vast gain to 
the opera, and it could not go otherwise than excellently ; 
Albertazzi has been for some time an invalid in Paris, but 
her appearance by no means gave any signs of recent illness ; 
she is rather stouter in person, and her voice appears to us 
rather more mellow, the contralta notes being firmer and sus- 
tained with the most exquisite ability. The beautiful air, Sola 

furtivo, al tempio, was beautifully given, and in the duet with 
Grisi, sejin al ore, sung by both in the most perfect manner, 
the demand for an encore being unanimous. 

Albertazzi's reception on her first appearance was one of 
welcome from all parts of the house, and seemed at the moment 
to affect her deeply, as she was notperhaps aware she had so many 
kind wishers, but she has no lack of admirers, and her quiet 
unassuming manners, joined with talents of the first order will 
always ensure her the success she deserves. Gnisi's scena in 
the first act. Casta Diva, is one that suits her admirably, and!n 
which the rich powerful notes of her voice are heard to every 
advantage ; she gives it with all the force and grandeur the 
subject requires, seeming to enter fnlly into the spirit of the 
scene. Lablache was Oroveso, and looked the priest to per- 
fection, whilst the music had the most ample justice done to it. 
Tati was the Pollio, and sang with much taste ; but his action 
is not so much to our mind, were he to reduce its exuberance, 
his singing, which is really good, would tell much better. 

Don Giovanni was produced for Tamburini's benefit, with 
the adjuncts of new scenery and dresses ; the cast is even 
stronger than when the opera was produced last season, and 
some changes have been otherwise made, — the part played by 
Assandri being taken by Grisi, and Zerlina falling to Per- 
Siani, who performed with considerable advantage to her repu- 
tation, in the beautiful Batti, Batti, and La ci Darem, she was 
remarkably successful, giving those charming airs with great 
feeling and expression. Grisi also was in excellent voice, and 
in the charming trio, Proiegga, il giusto celo, with Rubini and 
Albertazzi, drew forth the mostvehement applause. Lablache 
was the Leporello and Tamburini the gay Don, and the whole 
opera went off with the utmost applause from a house overflow- 
ing in every part ; in the ball-room scene Mdlle. Fitzjames 
introduced a Spanish dance, which is one of the prettiest things 
we have ever seen, and has the rare commendation with such 
dances, in that it is of an entirely novel character. This lady 
is the sister of Mdlle Fitzjames now dancing in Paris, in the 
Revolt au Serail, and made her first appearance also in Paris 
with very great success in Taglioni's part in Nathalie ,- she is 
light, elegant, and graceful, quick in her movements, and cer- 
tainly quite competent to be the first danseuse ; she is much 
superior to her sister, with whom the would-be critics have 
confounded her, and were but the fair play, usually allowed 
debutantes in this country, shewn towards her, she would soon 
convince the public that her talents are of the first order ; but 
when a dancer finds that an opposition has been raised against 
her, even before her appearance, it can hardly be expected but 
she must feel her energies are in vain and not have the spirit to 
exert herself to the utmost. It is no fault of a manager's, that 
first-rate dancers are not more plentiful, they must wait until 
their pi-evious engagements are expired. The Ellslers are 
engaged, and will positively appear during the present month ; 
so also was Duvernay, but illness prevents her appearing ; 
terms also were offered to Taglioni, but no manager would 
feel justified in acceding to them with the conviction that 
he must inevitably be a loser to an enormous extent. 

Parisina is founded on the celebrated poem of Lord Byron, 
but as our readers are well aware, the nature of the story re- 
quired considerable alterations to be made before it could be 
adapted for the stage; and M. Romani, the author of the 
Z»6/-e«o, has acquitted himself with considerable tact and judg- 
ment. The plot is thus altered :—Pflmina, the wife of the 
Duke of Ferrara, is enamoured of Hugo, like the gentle Dcde- 
mona, for the dangers he had past, and to her is assigned the 



task of placing on his head the laurel crown on his triumphant 
return to Fcrrara ; the jealousy of the Duke is excited during 
the ceremony, and in her sleep Parisinu betrays to him the 
secret of her love, and he vows the most awful vengeance against 
them both ; an old and faithful servant of the family in order 
to assuage the anger and jealousy of the Duke, informs him 
that Hutjo is his own son ; this, however, by no means appeases 
his resentment, but leads to a violent scene betwixt the father 
and son, after which Hugo is condemned to death, and Parisina 
dies broken-hearted on the body of her lover. The music is by 
Donizetti, and is said to be esteemed by him as the best of 
all his productions, and the very great success it has obtained 
in Italy has justified him in his partiality ; it was also very 
successful when produced in Paris, in April last ; and we have 
no doubt it will prove to the full as popular in this country as it 
has been elsewhere. The music, like all Donizetti's music, is 
sparkling ; abounding in beautiful melodies supported by novel 
and characteristic accompaniments, with occasionally passages 
of exquisite beauty and vigour ; we may mention, in particular, 
the scene in the alcove, where the Duke learns the secret of 
Parisina from herself, which leads to a duet full of warmth and 
feeling, and where the emotions of jealousy and terror are alter- 
nately depicted in the most vivid and fearful manner ; there is 
also a quartet, which is written with considerable breadth and 
freedom, and which, with the above duet, is certain to rank as 
the most brilliant and effective things Donizetti has ever 
written ; the third act is very short, but though short it con- 
tains one of the most exquisite morceaux of the opera, the truly 
beautiful air sang by Grisi ; it is replete with the most intense 
feeling of heart-broken despair, and like the Fra poco, of the 
Lucia di Lammermoor, must be heard to be appreciated ; the 
whole weight of the opera rests upon Tamburini, Rubini, 
and Grisi, and in their hands it received the most anitple 

COVENT garden. — A new musical entertainment, called 
JVie Outpost, has been produced at this theatre with consider- 
able success. The story runs thus : — Henri, a soldier of the 
Imperial Guard, has been left by mistake as sentinel on a bridge 
at a village on the frontiers of France and Germany, which has 
been taken and retaken several times. Henri maintains his 
post until he is wounded, and is then succoured by Bernard, a 
German miller, whose life is in turn saved by a French soldier. 
The mutual obligation is cemented by Charlotte, the miller's 
daughter, falling in love with Henri, who is no less smitten, 
and ejects Ludwig, a silly clown, in the good graces of the 
family. At the opening of the opera the lovers are about to be 
united, three months having expired since Henri was at the out- 
post, the duties of which, however, he continued to perform. 
The news is brought that the French are again in that part of 
the country, and Bernard is full of fight for his fatherland. He 
endeavours to put his friend in possession of the bridge, which 
is the key of the positions, but is foiled by Henri, who, re- 
recalled to his sense of duty by a friendly letter of Pierre, his 
sergeant, withstands the threats and remonstrances of his in- 
tended father-in-law, as also the endearments of Charlotte. At 
a very critical moment, when war is about to commence, the 
news is brought of a truce between the contending armies ; and 
the out-post, after being duly relieved, is rewarded for his 
honour and fidelity by the hand of his pretty bride. It is an 
interesting little story, is full of dramatic action, and a smart 
dialogue is thereunto appended. Mr. Hullah, the composer 
of the Village Coquette, and formerly a pupil of the Royal 

Academy, claims the deserved merit of having written the agree- 
able music to this agreeable pieee. 

We regret to hear that there is a probability of Mr. 
Macready's management expiring with the present season ; 
but we hope for the sake of the British Drama, and for the sake 
of the intellectual recreations of the public, which Mr. Macready 
has done so much for, that the proprietors will prevail upon this 
great actor again to preside over the destinies of the establish- 
ment, for otherwise it is plainly to be seen what its fate must 
be. If Mr. Macready does not have Covent Garden next 
year, who will have it .' We are not aware of the man that 
will be bold enough to incur the responsibility. Mr. Macready 
has made a stand against a very formidable opposition. The 
manager of the other house having found that mere dull spec- 
tacle was no longer attractive, made a virtue of necessity, and 
took to the performance of the legitimate drama, hiring Mr. 
Charles Kean at the immense salary of fifty pounds a- week 
to lead the tragic business, and Mr. Charles Kean, backed 
by the Court, has done wonders for Drury Lane, the manager of 
which would go back to nonsense, or worse, to-morrow, if he 
thought the change would draw more visitors to the theatre. 
Mr. MacreAdy, on the other hand, took up the cause of the 
drama as a branch of the national literature and art, and intent 
upon raising the character of the profession and of professors of 
the histrionic art, he determined to give fair salaries to all his 
company, but exhorbitant salaries to none. He made Mr. 
Charles Kean an offer^ and a very liberal offer too, it is 
said. Had young Kean been animated by anything like the 
spirit which influences Mr. Macready and his excellent com- 
pany, would have induced him to accept this offer ; but C h ARiES 
Kean preferred the offer of the man of the Bunn-shop, and 
the Court, nevertheless, continued to patronize Charles 
Kean. Now let us see the difference between the state of the 
drama as it is and as it might have been had Mr. Charles 
Kean accepted Mr. Macready's offer. The man of Drury 
Lane, who has desecrated the national stage, and done so much 
to injure the reputation of the national drama, had done all that 
he could do, and his reign appeared drawing to an end. Had 
Mr. Charles Kean gone to Covent Garden, the rival house 
must have passed into other hands, and no one would have taken, 
it, but with a view of conducting it upon the same principles 
which had been established by Mr. Macready at Covent Gar- 
den. Thus the public would ha(Ve at once been enabled to 
enjoy the national drama at the two national theatres. When, 
however, immense salaries are paid to one or two actors, and 
little or no salaries are paid to the inferior ones, it is impossible 
that the drama can be satisfactorily represented, because you 
cannot get talent for nothing, and only very inferior actors wilk 
play for very inferior salaries. Look at the state in which, 
Hamlet is played at Drury Lane. With the exception of the 
leading part, one might see the tragedy better done in a barn. 
But is this the case at Covent Garden,? No 1 There every cha- 
racter is represented with its appropriate effect, and if Mr. 
Charles Kean had accepted an engagement under Mr. 
Macready, great things might have been done for the drama, 
but Charles Kean is the rage for the moment, the nine days 
wonder, and Mr. Bunn can afford to pay him fifty pounds 
a-week, and Mr. Kean is better pleased to receive fifty 
pounds a-week from such a management as that of Drury Lane, 
than thirty or forty from such a management as that of Covent 

Sheridan's Knowles's play of Woman's Wit; or. Love's 
Disguises, was received with more applause than wc ever remem- 




ber to have heard bestowed upon a new piece ; the plot is not 
very complicated, and may be briefly told. Hero (Miss Faucit) 
is determined upon humbling her somewhat stoical lover, Sir 
Valentine de Grey (Anderson) and as she expresses it, bring- 
ing him at her feet like her glove ; to effect this she assumes 
the character of a Quakeress and induces her lover to do the 
same until he vows eternal constancy to the pretended Ruth, 
and afterwards, to his no small surprise, she accepts his offer in 
her own character. There is a second plot, where Ellen Moiv- 
hray (Miss Taylor) under the assumed name of Eustace defies 
to mortal combat her would-be seducer and calumniator, Lord 
Athunree (Ward) in which she is assisted by her lover, Wal- 
singhain (Macready) who is ignorant of her being alive, the 
combat only being prevented by the officers of justice, and the 
subsequent discovery of her sex. Miss Faucit played with 
much spirit as the volatile Hero, and at others as the staid and 
steady Ruth, and threw into her acting more archness and 
humoiir than we had given her credit for. Walsingham is an 
open manly part, and Macready played it as no other man 
could have done. The scene where he endeavours to take upon 
himself his friend's quarrel was most beautifully performed, and 
drew down hearty and honestly deserved applause ; our only 
regret was that he had not much more to do. Miss Taylor's 
was a performance of no small merit, and added much to 
the success of the play ; and Anderson, as Sir Valentine did 
much to maintain his reputation ; he has shewn himself to 
possess no mean talents, and is daily rising in public favour. 

Like all Knowles's plays the language is extremely happy, 
it is after the manner of the older dramatists, — the same quaint 
sententious style, with now and then some well imagined meta- 
phor or brilliant illustration enriching it like a well set gem ; he 
has, in fact, throughout the play studied the language more 
than the situations ; and some of the speeches, particularly 
those delivered by MACREADY'are replete with beauty, and will, 
we have no doubt, afford as much amusement in the closet as 
on the stage. 

DRURY-LANE. — A new opera by Mr. Jules Benedict 
has been produced at this theatre, under the title of ITie Gypsey's 
Warning; but as we have seen it observed, Mr. Benedict's 
music is by no means so fine as his moustache. Mr. Benedict 
has been much puffed ; but we cannot find in the music of this 
new opera of his anything really commendable. It is a mere 
dull, heavy, noisy affair ; destitute of sense, and only great in 
sound ; the bass instruments are largely called into requisition, 
and O ! the mighty work that is cut out for the trumpets, 
trombones, and ophecleides ! If the performers upon those 
instruments had not particulady good constitutions they would 
never be able to stand it. The plot is droUy-tragical. A gen- 
tleman in black creates a great deal of mischief by practising 
upon the tenderness of a very soft young gentleman, and even- 
tually the black receives his quietus, and everybody else live 
very happy afterwards. There are ghosts, trap-doors, murders, 
and every thing else that is horrible in the opera, horrible strata- 
gems, horrible murders, and most horrible music. But do you 
call this music ? Does Mr. Benedict really mean to say that 
all his accumulation of noise is actually music ? If he does 
he is a very bold young gentlemen. " Music hath charms" 
says the poet, " to soothe the savage breast." But if this 
be music we should say it hath charms to frighten them. In 
passing through Indian forests the travellers make frequent use 
of the gong and the " tom torn" to frighten away the wild 
beasts; but if the Drury Lane orchestra were to be the travellers, 
and they had any apprehension of a posse of wild animals 

coming down upon them, they might ensure their personal 
safety by striking up some of the terrible music of The Gypsey's 
Warning, which would be a warning to quit, which the animals 
would pretty soon turn their backs upon. Anotlier new opera, 
Diadeste ; or, the Veiled Lady, has been produced from the pen 
of Mr. Balfe, and of a very dull and dismal character. We 
could not understand the story of the piece, nor, indeed, the 
meaning of its name. Diadeste is an Italian game, played by 
a husband and wife as part of a plot of the lady's to cure her 
husband of a propensity to jealousy ; but why it was resorted to, 
or how it answered the intended purpose, we cannot tell. There 
are two ladies ; one of whom has a husband, and the other a 
lover. The husband is a jealous fool, the lover a conceited fop ; 
and the ladies lay their heads together in order to cure their 
two wiseacres of their respectives faults by playing them off 
against each other. Really the patients were not worth the 
pains bestowed upon them ; for a pair of more stupid and in- 
sipid personages we do not recollect ever to have met with. 
The unmarried gentleman, who is professedly a gay deceiver, 
and who, personated by Mr. Phillips, makes love to the mar- 
ried lady ; and she avails herself of this cgarement on his part to 
punish him for his infidelity, and her husband for his jealous 
temper. There is a good scene in the second act, where the 
fop is decoyed, by a pretended assignation, into the married 
lady's house ; and the husband, upon some information con- 
veyed to him as part of the plot, makes his appearance full of 
jealous rage, and insists on searching for the paramour. This, 
which is something like that of the Count and Countess in the 
Figaro, was amusing ; but it was the only amusing thing in the 
piece. Nothing could be more ponderous than the levity of 
Mr. Phillips in the dashing lady-killer ; anybody who knows 
him does not require to be told that such a part is entirely out 
of his line. Neither Miss Romer nor Templeton had any- 
thing to act ; and the glimmerings of dramatic amusement in 
the piece occasionally proceeded from Miss Poole, who played 
a smart souhrette, and from Giubilei as a negro servant. Mr. 
Balfe intended this for a comic opera ! Bless him ! his mirth 
is very melancholy. There are some few catching points in his 
music, but those remind us of "old familiar airs." Indeed 
nothing can well be worse than this music, unless, indeed, it be 
that of Mr. Benedict's Gypsey's Warning. Phillips, Miss 
Romer, and Templeton, did all that they possibly could do 
for the piece ; but what could they do for such dull and incom- 
prehensible nonsense ! 

HAYMARKET, — The Haymarket is one of the pleasantest 
houses in London. The new decorations are so extremely 
beautiful that it would be a pleasure to sit down in the boxes 
were the entertainment less excellent than they are ; but when 
elegance and convenience are before the curtain and the finest 
dramatic performances behind it, it would be strange, indeed, 
if the speculation of the spirited and enterprising manager were 
not successful. The Love Chase has been often performed 
during the month to delighted audiences, and The Hunchback 
has also been played with a similar degree of success. Mr. 
Knowlks's play of The Wife was represented two or three 
times, with Mr. Willis Jones in the character of St. Pierre, 
but Mr. Jones did not prove highly attractive, and the piece 
was withdrawn. A new farce, by Buckstone, called Weak 
Points, is one of the droUest of the works of this eccentric 
genius, and being played in all its characters in a most efficient 
style it has been a great attraction. We have also been highly 
gratified by the performance of Mdlle. Celeste, in a drama 
called Suzanne, a little piece of touching interest, in which this 



■celebrated artiste performs with exquisite tenderness and tbe 
most powerful effect. Mr. Power has also returned to this 
theatre. Power is one of the gieatest favourites of the pub- 
lic, and his performances are consequently in the highest degree 

The new farce of The Irish Barrister was not attractive, 
though to us it seemed to deserve a better reception than it re- 
ceived ; Power's acting as the Barber Banister was really 
\ery clever and original, but could not save the piece. The new 
drama of The White Horse of the Peppers, by Lover, however, 
bids fair to do better things. TTie Irish Ambassador, The Omni- 
bus, and The Nervous Man, with the rest of Power's favourite 
characters continue to draw full and fashionable houses evei-y 

There has been nothing notice-worthy in the performances at 
the Adelphi, the Olympic and the St. James's. 

STRAND. — Notwithstanding there is so much opposition in 
the field, this little theatre fights its way most manfuUy ; the 
performances are light, and occasionally neatly written ; The 
Cannibal owes its success, however, mainly to Hammond's 
excellent acting as Chiverton, and the author ought to feel the 
obligation ; the piece, however, does not fla^ and is a laughable 
affair. The Tobit's Dog is much better written, and the Mise 
en scene is creditable to the establishment. Miss Daly, Mrs. 
Franks and Lee are all seen to advantage, and play with 
much spirit. The Pickwickians still hold its ground ; Ham- 
mond, in his old part of Sam Weller, is quite at home, and 
contributes much to the amusement of her Majesty's mirth- 
loving lieges ; in the other characters there is little change, and 
the piece works well throughout. A clever child, named 
HuTCHiNGS, has appeared in Tern Thumb, with much success, 
and seems to bid fair to a popular Uttle actor. The theatre hcts 
been very well attended. 


The marriages in May have been but few ; the preparations 
for the Coronation seem to have put all thoughts of matrimony 
out of the heads of the young belles and cavaliers of fashion. 
After the Coronation, however, we may exnect to have mar- 
riages in abundance to describe ; and in this respect the conclu- 
sion of the season is to be far more brilliant than the commence- 
ment. The eldest daughter of the late Major Gen. and Lady 
Charlotte Murray Macgregor. Jane, Helen Camp- 
bell, grand -daughter to the late and niece to the present Earl of 
Caithness, has presented her hand to the gallant Alexander 
Boyd Kerr, Esq., of the Madi-as Rifles, and made her home 
of happiness in his heart. The Duke de St. Leu, the ex- 
King of Holland, an infirm and aged man, has recently mar- 
ried the Signora Stroggi, one of the most beautiful women of 
Florence, May and December ! Some ladies have strange 
tastes. We have much pleasure in reporting the marriage of 
the Countess Dowager of Huntingdon to Col. Thomas Noel 
Harris, K.C.H., &c.,&c., lateof the Queen's Dragoon Guards. 
The triumphs of Hymen have been increased by the happy wed- 
ding of the fair Rosa Anne, daughter of General Onslow, of 
Staughton House, Huntingdonshire, to Guildford Onslow, 

We regret to announce the demise of Lord Muncaster. 
His Lordship was a Peer of Ireland, and was born on the 1 4th 

December, 1802. He suceesded his father, Lowther, the 
second Lord, on the 29th July, 1813. By his marriage with 
Frances Catherine, youngest daughter of Sir John Rams- 
den, Bart., he has left a numerous infant family to deplore his 
premature demise. A distressing calamity has deprived the 
world of Miss Caroline Eyre, the only daughter of the late 
Hon. James Eyre, and niece to Frances, sixth Earl of 
Newburgh. This lamented young lady, being alone in her 
room about seven o'clock in the evening, accidentally threw 
down her candle, which falling on her sleeve it immediately 
took fire, and in an instant she was enveloped in flames. Miss 
Eyre rushed to the bell, the rope of which broke in her hand, 
and the door being locked, much time was unfortunately lost 
before, in her agony, she could get it open and call for assis- 
tance. At length she obtained help, and the flames being- 
extinguished, three physicians were immediately called in, but 
owing to a difference of opinion between them she refused to be 
bled, and manifested so much patience and courage that they 
were induced to believe her injuries would be less dangerous than 
they appeared. Unhappily, this hope was deceitful, and after 
lingering for several days in the greatest pain, mortification at 
last ensued and death put an end to her sufferings. Imme- 
diately after the accident occurred an express was sent off to 
her mother, the Hon. Mrs. Eyre, at Marivaux, near Metz, 
who arrived in Paris only half an hour before her daughter's 
death. Miss Eyre was universally beloved by a wide circle of 
friends both in England and France, by whom her death wUl be 
deeply felt. In this amiable young lady was centred the hope 
of continuing the line of the Livingstones and Radcliffes, in the 
event of her surviving the present Earl of Newburgh and his 
three sisters, only one of whom is married, but has no issue ; 
the Earldom of Newburgh being in remainder in the female 
line. We have also to announce the decease of the amiable 
lady of Sir Gregor Macgregor; of the Hon. Dame Jane 
Abercromby; and of Thomas Andrew Knight, Esq., of 
Downton Castle. 


Lincoln will, upon consideration, see the impropriety of pub- 
lishing his verses to Lady . The silent eloquence of her 

Ladyship's beautiful face, which beams from edmost every print- 
shop window, is more persuasive than any written or spoken 
argument would be. It is a painful subject. 

We shall be happy to hear again from Nemo. 

Gloriana's ^^ Romance of an Hour' ^ is not adapted for the 
pages of The World of Fashion. 

Louise. — Yes. 

Amoreux is a blockhead. How can he hope to be successful 
in love when he addresses to his mistress such fustian as this : — 
" O I am in despair, deep, direful, dark, profound ! 
The owls of horror hiss at me from every grove, 
And here I lie, hopeless, upon the ground. 
And shriek and cry for the my cruel love 1" 
We would recommend Bedlam and a strait-waistcoat as reme- 
dies for the grief of Amoreux. 

" Woman's Wit" shall appear in our next. 

The perfume exhaled by the rose-tinted commuinication of 
Zarah was of a more agreeable quality than our correspondent's 
verses, which we are sorry that we cannot possibly insert. 

Accepted : — The Prisoners ; Love's Tyranny ; and The Ban- 
quet of Hearts. 

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Fig. 1 . — Robe of mais pou de sole ; corsage h trois puce, 
pointed at bottom, and trimmed with a pelei-ine mantelet of 
English point lace, which is ornamented with roses and sprigs 
of white blossoms ; short sleeve, a triple bouillon, decorated en 
suite ; the skirt is trimmed with a magnificent point lace flounce, 
the heading of which is disposed in drapery, and intermingled 
with roses. The hair, arranged in soft braids, is decorated with 
a wreath of flowers. 

Fig. 2. — Green gros de Naples robe ; a shawl corsage ; the 
bust is decorated in the stomacher style, with an embroidery 
in green silk, and the pelerine trimmed with a flounce, with a 
very novel heading, manche a. I' enfant ; the skirt is trimmed en 
suite. Head-dress of hair, a la Berthe, decorated with roses, 
epis, and a white gauze scarf. 

Fig. 3 presents a back view of the costume just described, 
but in rose-coloured crape, and with the heading of the flouuces 
formed of wreaths of roses. 



Fig. 1. — Robe of one of the new pattern foulards ; the cor- 
sage half- high and pointed at the bottom, is trimmed with a 
lappel bordered with black lace ; a row of which also encircles 
the waist, and descends en tablier on each side ; the centre of 
the tablier is ornamented with knots of ribbon ; breast-knot en 
suite. Manche a bouillons, the bouillons terminated with black 
lace. Pink crape hat, the interior of the brim profusely orna- 
mented with blond lace, and the crown adorned with white 
ostrich feathers and pink ribbons. 


2. — Rose coloured pou de soie robe ; a low corsage and short 
sleeves, trimmed with blond lace ; the hair disposed in ringlets 
at the sides, and a noeud a la Serpente behind is adorned with a 
golden arrow. 

3. — India muslin robe, trimmed with white lacs amd straw 
coloured ribbon. The hair is ornamented with gold flowers, and 
white ostrich feathers disposed en gerbe. 

4. — Lilac crape robe ; corsage and Mancha a V enfant. The 
hair is decorated with a wreath and gerhe of flowers. 

5. — Lilac pou de soie robe ; a square corsage, trimmed, as are 
also the sleeves with point de Paris. Coiffure a la renaisance, 
ornamented with gold clasps, and white ostrich feathers. 

6. — Lemon coloured crape dress ; corsage plisse, and tight 
sleeves, both trimmed with blond lace. Head-dress of hair ^ la 
Vierge, decorated with a gerbe of flowers. 

7. — Morning Dress of green pou de soie ; corsage half- 
high, and pelerine a la Paysanne of the same material. Tulle 
cap, a rotmd shape ; it is triwaied with ribbons and floating 
brides of lulk. 

8. — Evening Dress of India muslin ; corsage phssee, 
trimmed with a lappel composed of two folds of muslin and a 
fall of lace. Short sleeves terminated by lace manchettes of a 
round form. The hair disposed in soft braids at the sides, and 
trimmed up in a low knot behind, is decorated with &ferronniere 
of fancy jewellery, and gerbes of white grapes with their foliage. 



Fig. 1 . — The dress is composed of white satin, superbly em- 
broidered in gold round the border ; the embroidery rises in the 
tablier style in front, and is terminated at the bottom by a superb 
gold fringe. The robe is of crimson velvet, trimmed with 
ermine ; the corsage part superbly adorned with gold ornaments, 
and fastened round the waist with a superb gold cord and 
tassels ; the back, trimmed with an ermine collar, is loose from 
the shoulders. The mancheron, scolloped in three places, is 
bordered with ermine. The hair, dressed in full curls at the 
sides, and three bows brought very forward on the summit of 
the head, is decorated with gold beads, a golA feronniere, and a 
white rose. Necklace of coloured gems. Cap of crimson 
velvet, trimmed with gold and ermine. 

Fig. 2 presents a back view of the robe we have just 
described. The under dress is also composed of white satin, but 
with an embroidery in gold of a different pattern. The hair, 
dressed in ringlets at the sides, and a soft knot on the summit 
of the head, is decorated with a superb feronniere, gold beads , 
and a coronet enriched with coloured gems. 



Fig. 1. — Robe of pink gros de Naples chinS ; it is made in 
the pelisse form ; a shawl corsage, trimmed en cceur, with a 
volan of the same material. Large sleeve, somewhat of the 
gigot form, surmounted by a winged mancheron. A double volans 
trims one side of the skirt. Embroided muslin collar, bordered 
with lace. Hat of white moire, the interior of the brim is 
trimmed next the face with a bouillon of tulU, in which roses 
are inserted. 


Fig. 2. — Robe of maize-coloured gros de Naples ; the back 
of the corsage is flat, the fronts draped from each shoulder. The 
sleeve h. la Duchesse d' Orleans ; the flounces are edged with 
white fancy silk trimming. The front of the skirt is trimmed 
with a flounce, which is edged to correspond. Worked muslin 
collet fichu, edged with lace. Small round cap of tulle, trimmed 
with blond lace, narrow at the sides, but very full round the 
corners and back ; a few flowers lightly placed and white ribbon 
complete the trimming. 


Fig. 3. — Printed muslin robe, the corsage made half high, 
is trimmed with a pelerine lappel, which is bordered with a 



double flounce. Victoria sleeve. A very deep flounce borders 
the skirt.. Breast-knot and ccinf.ure of straw-rolonred ribbon. 
Hat of straw-coloured gros de Naples,- a round brim ; tbe interior 
trimmed en denii guirlande, witli roses ; figured ribbons and a 
boquet of white ostrich feathers adorns the crown. 



Fig. 1. — .Taconot muslin robe; a low corsage, tight to the 
g'lape, and trimmed with a pelerine mantilla of English lace. 
Short sleeve, tight at the top, but descending very full below 
the elbow. Apron of black ffros de Naples, trimmed in a novel 
style with cherry-coloured ribbon. Small round cap of tulle, 
decorated with coques and floating brides of oiseau ribbon. 


Fig. 2. — The robe is one of the new foulards ; the front is 
trimmed en tablier with a flounce, being narrow at the top, but 
increasing in width as it descends, and very deep round the 
border; the rorM(/e half high, is draped in longitudinal folds. 
The sleeve full in the centre, and tight at top and bottom, is 
ornamented with flounces. Rice straw hat, trimmed with lilac 
ribbon and white feathers. 


Fig. 3. — India muslin pelisse robe, lined with pink sarsenet, 
and trimmed round the corsage and down the point of the skirt 
with bouillonnee ; knots of ribbon are intermingled with it on 
the skirt. Demi large sleeve, also ornamented with houillonne. 
White crape bonnet, lined with pink, trimmed en bonnet with tulle 
and flowers in the interior of the brim, and a riichc at the edge 
of it ; knots of ribbon, intermingled with a <«//e drapery, adorn 
the crown. 


The summer is now in all its eclat, and our prints will testify 
our assertion that the summer fashions are unusually brilliant. 
How, indeed, can they be otherwise ? when we consider that it 
is the first summer in which our young and lovely Queen assem- 
bles around her a brilliant and splendid Court. We say the first 
summer, for a great part of the latter was devoted to the Court 
mourning. The approach of the Coronation too, will render the 
season more brilliant than any that has preceded it, at least in 
the memory of any of our fair readers. But let us, without 
further digression, proceed to state what are the novelties that 
have appeared since our last number ; and first, 

Printed Muslins will be worn in morning negligi and half 
dress ; the patterns are small and remarkable both for their 
novelty and elegance. Those for negi%earejaeonot muslin, the 
others are clear muslin, and so beautifully fine and transparent, 
that they are well calculated for half-dress. 

Shawls and Mantelets. — Those of black silk are still 
the most in favour ; the forms are those that have been so often 
described ; the trimming is generally black lace, which we must 
observe is likely to continue in favour both for these envelopes, 
and for dresses during the summer. The first oifer a good deal 
of variety ; some are lined with rose or straw-coloured sarsenet, 
others worn without lining ; many are ornamented with rich 
embroidery, others are quite plain. Some are trimmed with 
lace ; others with bands of muslin that are either embroidered 
round the border, or scolloped at the edge. Some of these 
shawls form mantelets ; others are square. We see them also 
descend in points, forming scarfs. So that it may be said with 
truth there are shawls for all tastes and all fortunes. We can- 

not say the same of the China crape shawls, for to be fashion- 
able they must be of the rich kind described in our last number. 
Rice Straw Hats. — Some have just appeared remarkable 
for the smallness of their brims. One that has been generally 
admired is ornamented with a richly figured white and green 
ribbon, and a bunch of white grapes ; others were ornamented 
with five roses, panaehees, or a voilettc, entirely covering the 
brim, with a bunch of ears of barley under the voilelte ; others 
are adorned with plumes h crete de marabouts, either poquille, 
azure blue, or rose. Dyed marabouts are also very generally 
employed for the trimming of these hats. 

Italian Straw Hats.— Although the majority have not 
the brims cut, there is yet a considerable minority that have, 
and we have seen some of the most expensive of these beautiful 
hats that have been submitted to the scissars. V/e cannot help 
feeling it a pity, for there is no form which can be given to these 
hats more graceful than their original one, with the brim par- 
tially turned up at the back. We may cite among the most 
elegant of these chapeaux, those ornamented with a head of 
asparayns en grain e ; the verdure is extremely delicate, and the 
little red seeds have a singularly pretty effect. The ribbon that 
trims these hats is twisted round the upper part of the crown 
and terminates in a knot on one side. The brides are attached 
under the brim ; there is no ribbon round the lower part of the 
crown. Violets of Parma and flowers of the Alps are much in 
request for trimming the interior of the brims of Italian straw 

Half-Dress Bonnets. — We may cite at the head of our 
list of these elegant novelties those that have recently appeared 
of coloured silk, covered with India muslin, embroidered in 
colonnes, amhesques, or strewed with sprigs in feather-stitch. 
The interior of the brim and the bacolet are also covered with 
muslin. Some delicate flowers decorate the interior of the 
brim, and a triple knot of ribbons with long floating ends placed 
on one side of the crown completes the trimming. Another 
bonnet of white gros de Naples, lined with cherry colour, had an 
admirable effect ; it was trimmed with a blond lace voilette, and 
a bouquet of flowers, tied by a broad white ribbon shaded with 
cherry-colour. Some crape bonnets, covered with spotted tulle 
have just appeared ; the effect is at once novel and pretty, they 
are trimmed with roses mignonne. 

Cottage Bonnets.— There seems little doubt that these 
bonnets, of a form very different, however, to their original 
shape, will be adopted by our elegantes during the summer ; we 
mean, of course, in a certain degree, for we think they will be, 
as the French would say, une mode a part. We have seen some 
in very fine straw, lined with white satin ; the crown and brim 
were in one, but the latter rounded at the corners, and mode- 
rately wide, is infinitely more becoming as well as more distingue' 
than the original cottage bonnet. Some have no trimming in 
the interior of the brim, others are ornamented in a very light 
style wth tulle. A round and very full knot of ribbon with 
floating ends is placed at the back of the crown. This is a 
remarkably elegant and lady-like style of bonnet. Another 
somewhat different in form, called a bibi cottage, has just ap- 
peared in rice straw ; they are trimmed with dark coloured rib- 
bons ; chocolate brown and a new shade of blue are the prettiest 
colours. The edge of the brim was trimmed with a ruche. We 
must observe that this ornament is now very generally employed 
for morning bonnets ; in effect nothing can be more generally 
becoming, from the softness it gives to the feature. 

Robes for Carriage or Public Promenade Dress. — • 
The most elegant robes are those of embroidered muslin, 



trimmed with flounces embroidered expressly for that kind of 
trimminir ; the sleeves, tight at the top, are all trimmed at the 
upper part with flounces, and are demi-large to the wrist ; the 
backs of the corsages are full, and a good many have the fronts 
plain ; if they are trimmed, they are trimmed in a very simple 
style, and particularly in such a manner as to leave the bottom 
of the corsage quite disengaged. We shall cite a corsage of a 
half high robe, the waist very long, disengaged from all kind 
of ornament near the ceinture, but on the breast was an oval 
trimming formed by a band which terminated its points at each 
end, flat plaits issued from the trimming on each side and met 
the shoulder-strap. The upper part of corsages continue to be 
cut always rather open en cceur. If the robe is composed of 
silk or muslin ; this opening is generally trimmed with one or 
two rows of lace set on full. We have great reason to believe 
that pelisse robes of muslin or organdy lined with silk will not 
enjoy the same vogue that they have done for some seasons past ; 
they will, however, enjoy a certain degree of favour, for they 
are too pretty to be all at once laid aside. A few robes of plain 
muslin have appeared without any other ornament than a deep 
hem round the bottom, through which a coloured ribbon was 
run ; this simplicity was, however, redeemed by the corsage a.nd. 
sleeves being trimmed with lace, or else a pelerine mantelet of 
lace crossed on the bosom, and the ends descending to the cein- 
ture, being worn with the robe. 

Morning Concekt Dresses. — We cannot do better than 
present our fair readers with a few ensembles of elegant half- 
dress toilettes that have recently appeared at some of these re- 
unions ; a plain muslin robe trimmed with two volans, embroi- 
dered in a light pattern, each surmounted by a riviere nearly 
half-a-quarter deep ; the flounce is finished at the edge by a 
narrow scolloped lace. The dress was worn over a gros de 
Naples slip of the palest blue. A large shawl of blue pou de 
soie, with a narrow lappet ; the shawl embroidered all round a 
climbing wreath, and finished with a deep full trimming, cut out 
in dents at the edge. Rice straw hat, trimmed viiih foUettes 
panachees de blue, and the interior of the brim ornamented with 
light blue velvet. Organdy robe, trimmed with a deep flounce, 
surmounted by a bouillon with a rose-coloured ribbon run through 
it ; the bottom of the flounce finished with two narrow tucks 
each with a ribbon run through. Corsage vierge full all round ; 
the fullness gathered at top into two embroidered bands. Wide 
sleeves, surmounted by two jockeys ; they are drawn with rib- 
bons in the hem, and drawn in at the bottom by three bands of 
ribbon at equal distances, with small knots in the centre of the 
arm. White crape cottage bonnet, trimmed with a ruche of rose 
ribbon, and a sprig of moss roses drooping on one side. Robe 
of changeable silk, lilac and straw colour ; the skirt is trimmed 
•with a flounce embroidered in lilac silk. Wide sleeves orna- 
mented en suite. Corsage tight and half high. Pelerine man- 
telet of embroidered muslin trimmed with lace, and lined with 
white taffetas. Italian straw hat trimmed with a bird of Para- 
dise, and straw-colom-ed ribbons. 

Pelisse Robes continue to be adopted in half-dress ; some 
few are of muslin embroidered and trimmed with lace ; but the 
majority are composed of pou de soie or gros de Naples ; the 
back may be either plain or full, but the front is always cut en 
caur. We may cite as the most elegant of these dresses, those 
of grey pou de soie, closed entirely down the centre with a )-uche 
chievree of the material of the robe ; a second ruche forms a 
tunic, and reaches en tablier to the ceinture. Corsage en schall, 
witha lappel trimmed en suite. Wide sleeves, the shoulders and 
wrists trimmed with nichts. 

Victoria Sleeve. — Such is the form almost universally 
adopted for long sleeves ; the only diff'erence that exists is in the 
variety of ornaments at the top, and the greater or less wider 
at the bottom. When they are not close at the top they are con- 
fined by bands, either two or three in number, nearly to the 
elbow ; the lower part of the sleeve is full. 

Coiffures in Evening Dress are principally distinguished 
for their simplicity. We may cite as among the prettiest, a cap, 
or rather a half caul of a cap placed very far back upon the head ; 
it is composed of blond lace, and the front formed of two half 
wreaths of light flowers, which, descending on each side of the 
cheeks, droop upon the neck. Small hats of rice straw with 
aureoli brims, the interior decorated with flowers ; the crowns 
with shaded marabouts are also in favour ; and white crape hats 
still more so. But, perhaps, the prettiest coiffure is one that we 
hardly know how to designate, it is neither a hat nor a cap, but 
may be said to partake in some degree of the forms of both ; it 
is composed of blond lace, and trimmed with gerbes of small 
roses, partly vieled under the folds of lace. 

Evening Head-dresses of Hair. — They are uniformly 
dressed very low behind, the knot of hair being placed almost 
upon the nape of the neck. We may cite as the most elegant 
style of ornament for these coiffures, knots of ribbon attached on 
each side with the ends floating upon the neck and shoulders ; 
a few flowers are tastefully placed. We frequently see a pink 
camelia placed on one side in a tuft of hair, and a corresponding 
one opposite ; roses are often arranged in the same manner. 
Another favourite ornament is a sprig of heath blossoms, placed 
very far back, or two boquets of violets of Parma, disposed like 
pompons on each side of the cheeks. 

Fashionable Colours still continue to be of the kind that 
\^e have enumerated last month, but a variety of new and beau- 
tiful shades of these colours have appeared. White is stUl more 

from the most authentic sources. 

At last the Spring seems to have set in with sufficient warmth 
to entice our elegantes to appear in what may be termed decided 
summer costumes. Our fair readers will find in our prints a 
variety of models equally remarkable for novelty and elegance. 
We hasten, in addition, to give them such intelligence as we 
flatter ourselves they will find equally useful and gratifying ta 
their taste. 

New Materials. — We may cite among the most distingue, 
the poults de soie chine, striped in nai-row stripes, which are 
either shaded or divided by very small wreaths, or else by de- 
tached sprigs figured in the silk ; gros de Naples glace, striped in 
marbled stripes — the stripes are narrow and very wide apart : 
this silk has a very novel appearance and seems likely to become 
very fashionable. Gros de Naples a mille raies, and also gros de 
Naples a mille raies quadrilles, are in very great favour, as are 
likewise silks a. colonnes mille raies hrochees. Generally speaking, 
large patterns are out of favour ; however, we have not yet 
passed from one extreme to the other, for the present patterns 
are of a reasonable size — we speak, of course, of figured and 
damasked silks. The same observation is applicable to mousse- 
lines de laine ; it was expected that those with large shaded 
colonnes would have again become fashionable, and, indeed, 
several patterns of the kind have appeared, but they will not ba 
at all in vogue. 



Capotes.— In ofder to present our fair readers with those 
most worthy of their notice, we must have recourse to the bois 
de Boulogne, which is now the fashionable promenade ; there we 
find some elegant bonnets of rice straw, the brims round and of 
moderate size, the crowns placed very backwards. Some are 
trimmed with flowers, others with branches of fruit blossoms, 
and several with branches of unripe currants or tufts of straw- 
berries. We see several capotes of pou de sole, particularly of 
white and straw-colour, trimmed with ruches of the same material 
round the edge of the brim and on the summit of the crovra ; a 
single knot of ribbon on one side of the crown completes the 
trimming. But, the capetes par excellence, are those composed 
of crape ; the most novel are bouillonnee, the shape sustained 
by whalebone; those of rose-colour, azure blue, and white, are 
most numerous. We have observed that sprigs of lilac, roses, 
panachifes, and jessamines, were the flowers most in favour for 
trimming crape bonnets. We noticed, also, that several were 
adorned with bouquets of shaded marabouts ; the bouquets are 
placed low on the sides of the crown, so as to droop in the gerbe 
style upon the brims ; this style of trimming is remarkable for 
lightness and grace. 

Chapeaux.— We may cite among the most novel, one of 
Italian straw, trimmed with a branch of nut blossoms, attached 
by a lappet of English point lace. A great number of hats of 
Italian straw have the brim turned up behind in three folds ; a 
good many are decorated with ears of ripe corn, or ornaments 
composed of organdy ; where these latter are employed, they 
are either edged with straw plait or embroidered in coloured 
spots. A very novel and graceful style of trimming is a chaperon 
of ribbon ; it is arranged in an uncommonly novel and graceful 
style. Hats of French and English straw are expected to be 
worn, but very few have yet appeared ; they are trimmed quite 
in the spring style, and with great taste. Violettes de Parme 
and white violets will be much in favour, and a miniature lettuce, 
which is now become a favourite ornament both for caps and 
hats, will be frequently employed ; we must observe that where 
It IS used, it will always correspond either with the hat or the 
ribbon that trims it. As to the forms of hats we have no hesi- 
tation in saying that the brims are considerably diminished in 
size, they are rounded at the sides, and short in the centre ; the 
crown is thrown backward in a degage and graceful style. 

Fancy Silk Trimmings are always in favour to ornament 
robes. We have heard a good deal said pour et contra these 
trimmings, which have been partially revived during the last 
season, and we have reason to think they will be decidedly in 
favour this year. We hope so ; for, independently of their 
being very pretty, and adding an elegant finish to a dress, they 
are very useful in another point of view, they serve to encourage 
a particular branch of trade, and consequently give bread to 
many industrious persons. We have seen a pelisse just ordered 
by a lady of very high rank ; it is composed of lilac pou de sole, 
and closed down the side by smaU brandebourgs placed in a bias 
direction, and terminated by glands. Another pelisse, also 
ordered by a distinguished leader of ton, is composed of gros de 
Naples, quadrilled in small squares of lilac and white ; the sleeves 
were very large, and the corsage made to the shape, but disposed 
en cceur; both were ornamented with verv narrow soft silk fringe 
of the two colours of the dresses. One side of the skirt wrap- 
ping across a little, and cut in scoUops, had the scollops edged 
with fringe ; the efi-ect was very pretty, owing to the extreme 
lightness of the trimming. 

Costumes de SPECTACLE.-The reappearance of Robert le | 

Diahle and that of the Domino noir has attracted all the beau 
monde; we scarcely remember a more brilliant display of 
toilettes than both representations have afforded. The majority 
of the robes were of silk ; the corsages for the most part cut 
low, were either draped or made a revers. Short sleeves com- 
posed of bouillons, made with little fullness, and put closely 
together ; the shoulders were decorated with knots of ribbon 
with floating ends ; but we observed that they were not near 
so long as they have been recently worn. The skirts for the 
most part trimmed with flounces, or rather, we should say, one 
very deep flounce of the same material as the dress, ornamented 
with a knot of ribbon of the same form as that on the sleeve ; 
it is placed on the right side and just above the flounce. 

Coiffures de Spectacle.— We may cite among the most 
novel one of the Hebrew kind, which, however, was introduced 
by a very beautiful Christian. Indeed, we must observe that 
the turban a la Juive, and other head-dresses of the Jewish 
kind, which during late years have been so very much in favour, 
were never seen upon the heads of the fair daughters of Israel, 
to whose style of countenance, however, they would have been 
much more becoming than to the generality of the belles who 
adopted them. But to return to our subject, the coiffure is com- 
posed of a narrow circle of plain gold, in the centre of which is 
a single precious stone of very high price, or else a lozenge com- 
posed of twelve diff'erent gems ; this novel arrangement of pre . 
cious stones has some resemblance to the plaque symbolique of 
the pontiffs of ancient Israel. We need hardly observe that 
this ornament is much better calculated for majestic belles, or as 
the French phrase it, for la beaute severe, than for countenances 
of the Hebe cast. We would recommend to those of the latter, 
the prettiest of all the pretty little caps that have recently 
appeared ; it is composed of blond lace, a small caul formed of 
a single piece, and a moderately high prt;ji7/on coquilie tiW round ; 
some knots of shaded blue ribbon ornament the interior of the 
papillon and long brides to correspond float upon the neck. The 
effect of this cap upon a pretty youthful face is positively be- 

French Court Dress. — We select from a crowd'of elegant 
toilettes, that of the Princess Clementine and of an English lady 
of high rank. The robe of the princess was of white gros de 
Tours ; it was ornamented with two garlands of giroflee, inter- 
mingled with foliage, and forming a tablier. The corsage and 
sleeves were profusely trimmed with blond lace. Flowers cor- 
responding with those on her dress were intermingled with her 
ringlets, a river of diamonds, and a couronne formed of emeralds 
and diamonds completed the ornaments of the coiffure, and a 
superb necklace of diamonds and emeralds, ornamented with 
three Sevigne's finished a toilette of what may well be called 

royal munificence. The robe of the Countess was of 

white lace over white pou de soie ; the robe was completely 
covered by two immense flounces of English point lace, one of 
which was attached round the waist and descended to the middle 
of the skirt, where it met the second flounce which reached to 
the bottom. This singular dress, notwithstanding its apparent 
simplicity, was one of the richest at court. The hair arranged 
a la Berthe, was ornamented with point lace lappets to corres- 
pond ; a superb plume of ostrich feathers, and bandeau of 
diamonds. The majority of che dresses were silk, those of 
moire, either rose or white, were most general ; they were 
trimmed with deep flounces of English point lace. There were 
also several robes of organdy, trimmed with lace. It is the fir^ 
time that dresses of such extreme simplicity have been seen at 












' Son of proud sires, whose patriot blood 
Sent to thy heart its purest flood ; 
What land, what language may not raise 
Its tribute to thy deathless praise ?'' 



The name of Combermere is one highly honoured in the 
English peerage ; its possessor has, by his own valour and intre- 
pidity, by his genius and devotion to the cause of his country, 
won for himself laurels which will never wither, and established 
a reputation that will be immortal. He was one of the heroes 
who, in the long and terrible war which ended in 1814, supported . 
the reputation of Britain, and established its supremacy over the 
whole world. The family of Combermere is an ancient one, 
although its present representative is the first member of it who 
was elevated to the nobility. It is supposed to be of Saxon 
descent. In the reign of Henry the Eighth, the family was 
located at Combermere, in Cheshire, but to the period of the 
restoration there is nothing notice-worthy in its records. When 
Charles the Second was seated upon the throne. Sir Robert 
Cotton, son of Thomas Cotton, Esq., of Combermere, by 
Elizabeth, daughter and co-heiress of Sir George Calveley, 
of Lea, in the county of Chester, Knight, — received the honour 
of knighthood, and subsequently received a baronetcy from the 
same monarch, by which the title was made hereditary to the 
family. Sir Robert represented the county of Chester in Par- 
liament for nearly forty years ; he married Hesther, daughter 
of Sir Thomas Salusbury, Bart., and, dying in 1712, was 
succeeded by his fourth and eldest surviving son. Sir Thomas 
Cotton, who married Philadelphia, daughter and heiress of 
Sir Thomas Lynch, Knight, of Esher, in the county of Surrey. 
This baronet occupied a private station with much respectability 
and credit to himself, but was not distinguished in any public 
capacity ; he died in 1715, and was then succeeded by his eldest 
son. Sir Robert Salusbury Cotton, who entered into Par- 
liament, representing the county of Cheshire. He married 
Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Lionel, first Earl of Dysart, 
but dying without issue, the title devolved upon his brother. 
Sir Lynch Salusbury Cotton, who represented the county 
of Durham in Parliament, and whose lady was Elizabeth, 
daughter of Rowland Cotton, Esq., of Etwall, in the county 
of Derby. He died in 1775, and was succeeded by his eldest 
son. Sir Robert Salusbury, the father of the gallant oflScer 
who has distinguished himself in so many splendid actions. S r 
Robert was M.P. for the county of Chester, which he repre- 
sented with credit to himself and satisfaction to his consti- 

Vol. XVI. 

tuents. His young affections were caught by one of the most 
dazzling of the stars of the fashionable world at that period, 
Frances, the daughter and co-heiress of James Russell 
Stapleton, Esq., to whose heart he laid siege, and eventually 
effected his object. The marriage took place in 1 767 ; and now 
behold the star of fashion in the capacity of wife. 

" A wife-like spirit reigneth in her eye, 
And on her heart the vow, so newly made, 

Is \\Tit in characters that will not die ! 
No wayward hopes her wedded thoughts displace, 

A chasten'd meekness hath her voice attuned, 
A glad, sweet quiet settles o'er her face, 

And grief may touch her now — but cannot wound. 
The joys of girlhood with its years are o'er, 

But other joys spring holier in her breast ; 
The doubts of love disturb her now no more, 

The tree hath bloomed — the dove hath found her nest, 
And every hour upon her wifehood cast. 
Hath paused and smiled upon her as it passed !" 

A family of seven children resulted from this happy union. 

1. Stapleton, now Viscount Combermere. 

2. William, in holy orders. 

3. Lynch, who entered the army, and died in the East 
Indies, leaving a widow, who married (in 1807) Lieut. -General 
Sir W. LuMLEY.K.C.B. 

4. Frances, who was married in 1792 to Robert, late 
Viscount Kilmorey, and died in 1818. 

5. Penelope. 

6. Hester Maria. 

7. Sophia, married to Sir H. M. Mainwaring, Bart. 
Sir Robert Cotton died in 1807. 

We have now to speak of his eldest son, Stapleton Cotton, 
Viscount and Baron Combermere, of Combermere, in the 
county of Chester, and a baronet, G.C.B., G.C.H., and K.S.F. ; 
Governor of Sheerness, a General Officer in the army, and 
Colonel of the third regiment of light dragoons. At an early 
period of his life heembraced the military profession, having en- 
tered the army in 1791, and from that time until the termination 
of the war, in 1814, he was actively engaged in the various 
struggks between this country aud foreign powers, in many of 
which he distinguished himself by his undaunted courage and 
activity. But he was not so entirely devoted to a soldier's life 
as to be able to dedicate no portion of his time to tenderer 
thoughts, for we find that he was a slave to beauty, and having 
been fascinated by the bright eyes of Anna Maria, the eldest 
daughter of Thomas, third Duke of Newcastle, it may be 
supposed he wrote verses to her " lovely eyebrows," and sung 
to her such strains as these : — 

One hour with thee at close of day. 

When all is still, and none remain 
To watch our words and smiles' free play, 

With alter'd looks or cold disdain ; — 
O ! then is nought so dear to me 
As that one quiet hour with thee ! 




The day may drag through drearily, 

With few so loue, and none to cheer — 
Yet, tho' it wear so wearily, 

It icill be gone, and thou be here ; 
And then I know there's balm for me 
In that one quiet hour with thee ! 
When seated by thy side I feel 

A sweet content of heart and mind ; 
Thy presence every grief can heal, 

And all may frown, so thou art kind — 
O ! then is nought so dear to me 
As that one quiet hour with thee ! 
He won the fair lady's heart, and their nuptials were so- 
lemnized ; but death soon deprived him of the object of his 
affections (1807). He then pursued with activity his military 
duties, and on the 17th of May, 1814, was elevated to the 
peerage, in consideration of his brilliant services, as Baron 
CoMBERMERE. He soou afterwards (June 22, 1814) married 
Caroline, second daughter of William Fulke Greville, 
Esq., and has the following family. 

1. William, born November 24, 1818. 

2. Caroline, born in 1815. 

3. Meliora Emily, born in 1825. 

The arms of this distinguished nobleman are az., a chev. 
between three hanks of cotton paleways, ar., in chief, pendant, 
from a ribbon, gu., a representation of the medal presented to 
his lordship after the battle of Salamanca. Crest : a falcon, 
ppr., wings extended, belted, or., holding in the dexter claw a 
belt, az., buckled, gold : crest of augmentation, upon amount, 
verl., a soldier of the 3d regiment light dragoons, mounted, aU 
ppr., in the attitude of charging the enemy, and over this crest, 
in an escrol, az., the word Salamanca, in letters of gold, ex- 
pressive of his lordship's great actions at that place. Sup- 
porters : two falcons, wings extended and endorsed, ppr., belled, 
or., fessed, pu,, murally gorged of the last. 

The seat of Lord Combermere is at Corobermcre, in Cheshire, 
a very delightful and picturesque retreat. 



Lady-love, lady-love, why dost thou weep ? 
Thy true-love's returned, and sorrow should sleep ; 
Vn touch my guitar, and list thy sweet voice, 
I'll touch my guitar, love, and we will rejoice. 

I mourned at our parting, but thought not to prove 

My lady. fair ever inconstant in love ; 

That falsehood would come from those lips that had sworn 
To welcome me home as the lark welcomes morn. 


Oh ! why did they tell me my true-love was slain ? 
And say he was buried on Palestine's plain ? 
Those eyes that smiled on me would ne'er see me more, 
And the form that I worship'd no art could restore ? 

Oh ! why did they thus give me up to distress ? 
Oh ! that I had ne'er sworn another to bless ; 
For my true-love, my first-love, is come back again ; 
And duty and love rends my sad heart in twain. 
Nottingham. r. X. Morrison. 


By the Author of the Puritan's Daughter, 

" Poor boy, the world hath much ill-used thee." 

The Sisters of Seville. 

The recent wars in Spain have brought all things connected 
with that country most vividly before us, and we have become 
accustomed to dwell with increased interest on all circumstances 
relating thereto ; the wild untameable disposition of its mountain 
peasantry, the war of extermination, and bitter and relentless 
cruelty shewn to the unhappy prisoners, who have fallen into the 
power of either side, have made a deep and lasting impression on 
all who have observed the progress of events in Spain ; and 
though we may look upon the country as the region of romance, 
where the soft and sunny landscape bears away the palm from 
all other lands ; where the orange grove sheds its fragrant per- 
fume around ; and where the beautiful and grand blend to 
render it the most lovely of all countries in the world, yet has 
all this been thrown away upon its stern inhabitants, who are 
only remarkable for their cruelty when any popular commotion 
stirs the angry blood of men into action, and all ties of humanity 
are forgotten. May we hope that a change may come o'er the 
spirit of the dream, and better and brighter days be in store for 
this unhappy land. 

Our readers remember during the recent events in Spain, that 
the decimation of the Chapelgorries excited unusual attention ; 
the cruelty and injustice of the act was so monstrous that men 
wondered such things could pass in these days of improvement 
and civilization. It is to this circumstance our story tends. We 
need scarcely mention that the Chapelgorries were the elite of 
the Spanish army ; and after that sad event their spirits were 
broken, and the corps were considered to be so changed in spirit 
as scarcely to be recognised as the same. 

Pietro Rimez was, of all the Chapelgorries, about the most 
soldier-like and neatest in appearance that an officer could have 
picked out as a model for his comrades ; he was scarce turned 
twenty, a very Spaniard in his sun-burnt countenance and glossy 
hair, and though brave to desperation, yet to his comrades was 
he the greatest favourite, from his mildness and kind good feeling, 
that ever prompted him to lend a helping hand to assist or relieve 
them in any emergency that the frequent changes of a campaien 
called forth. ^ 

There was one circumstance connected with him that excited 
much attention in the corps ; throughout all the campaigns he 
had been followed by a woman ; gentle reader, we tell no story 
of love, of no singleness of purpose that woman in her devotion 
leaves all the world to follow him she loves the best, and whether 
in sickness or in sorrow to be near and minister consolation and 
comfort in the hour of trial and distress ; for Pietro but called 
the Andalusian Paquita by the name of mother. There seemed 
something in her atfection for her son more than even mothers 
show ; or, perhaps, it requires the wild and stirring scenes of 
civil strife and war to caU them forth in all their force. She was 
ever near him in their long and tedious marches, to assist and 
encourage him ; and her only comfort seemed to be when with 

It will be recollected that the Chapelgorries were said to 
have pillaged a church and killed the priest ; the priest was 
said to have been killed in fair and open fight as an enemy ; that 
he was slain as the aggressor. Be this so or not, and we believe 
it was the truth, a terrible blow was to avenge this so called 




atrocity, and as none could point out which were the actual cul- 
prits on the occasion, it was determined by the general (and by 
none but a Spaniard could such an act of blood be perpetrated) 
that the Chapelgorries should be decimated. 

The unhappy men were ordered to march some distance beyond 
the town, and to pile their arms, ignorant of what was to be the 
result. This they did, unsuspectingly, and upon a given signal 
the other reiiments closed and took charge of their arms. The 
Chapelgorries instantly perceived that they were betrayed, and 
strove to regain their muskets, but it was too late ; they then 
learnt to what they were doomed. Lots were ordered to be drawn, 
and those who drew the unfortunate numbers were to die. 

The lots were accordingly drawn in solemn silence, the betrayed 
Chapelgorries inwardly vowing vengeance agciinst their betrayer. 
Amongst those whose evil chances doomed them to die, was the 
general favourite of the regiment, Pietro Rimez. His unhappy 
mother, who had, as usual, followed the regiment, soon learnt 
the approaching fate of her son. The suddenness seemed almost 
to bewilder her ; she could scarce believe it was not a dream. 
To die ! she exclaimed ; so young, so innocent ! What ! what 
had he done ? Why was he to be a victim, who knew nothing 
of their misdeeds, if, indeed, there had been any ? Had he been 
slciin in the strife of war she would have grieved his loss, but it 
would have been with honour; but, as a beast of prey, to be 
entrapped and slain 1 A sudden thought, however, seemed to 
have come across her ; the major of the Chapelgorries was a 
stem man, but little known for mercy, of an abstracted and 
gloomy disposition, he seemed to avoid his brother officers ; it 
was said something preyed upon his mind, but whether of love 
or hatred none ever knew ; whatever had been the circumstance 
it had changed his disposition altogether, for there were those 
who had known him in his youth, a man of different character, 
even, as they said, to be mild and gentle. The stern unrelenting 
character of a strict disciplinarian was now the general name 
he bore in the regiment, and none but the unhappy Paquita 
would have thought of bending to him for mercy. 

She flew to him on the instant, and besought him to listen to 
her. He acceded to her demand. She besought him that their 
interview might be in private. To this also he agreed ; and 
they withdrew to some distance. 

No sooner were they out of hearing of the rest, than she ex- 
claimed with much eagerness, " Oh ! spare my poor boy, he is 
doomed to die ; spare him in heaven's name, and I wUl worship 
thee ; Oh ! spare him to me." 

" Woman ; I cannot." 

" You can ; you can : a word from you would do it. Oh ! 
hear me. Do not let him die. One word, and his life is spared" 

" I cannot interfere ; it is a stern duty, and it must be per- 
formed ; why should I interfere for one more than another \" 

" He is innocent ; he was not near the spot, but say you 
will save him, do with him what you will, but spare his life, 
only spare his life." 

" I cannot !" 

" Say rather you will not !" 

" Then do [ say I will not I" 

" Spoken like yourself, Manuel Adorio, exclaimed Paquita, 
with bitterness !" 

At the sound of this name, not the one he bore in the regi- 
ment, the Major started and every nerve seemed to quiver with 

" How know you that name," he demanded eagerly. 

" Ah, you seem now to listen more to reason ; do you re- 
member something more than twenty years ago, you were in 

Andalusia young and handsome and courted by all ? You see I 

do know you ; will you spare him now " 

" It seems you know me ; but I cannot spare him ; I pity 
you, but duty must have its way." 

" Duty," said the half-frantic woman, turning her eyes with 
bitter agony towards the Chapelgorries, you call that duty ? there 
is no word for such an act, or I know none ; listen then further 
to me ; you know that in Andalusia the lordly family of Alvez 
had an only daughter, what can I call her, she was an angel if 
ever woman was, and you knew it ; and more — for you see I 
know you well, Manuel Adorio, at least you once bore that 
name. Will you spare my poor boy ? 

The Major answered not, but his hand was pressed upon his 
brow, some bitter recollections seeming to afifect him deeply. 

Paquita proceeded. Manuel, I will tell you more, you woo'd 
the gentle Inez in secret — and more will I tell you— you won 
her, for in private you married her — look at me stern man. I 
say look at me, and remember who was present then, even 
the poor degraded being who is now before you ; then your 
wife's maid — but now au humble supplicant for your mercy ; 
then you were the supplicant for stolen interviews— will you 
spare my poor boy ?'' 

" Indeed I have not the power !" 

" I say you have ; you are the generals' favourite, he will do 
all you wish. Save him, I say, and you will think it the hap- 
piest day you have known for many a long year ; you hesitate — 
why man your heart is tiirned to iron that nothing can indent ; 
listen to me then, for if what I tell you now will not, then 
there is not feeling on earth. You know the Lord Alvez on 
discovering your secret visits, forced your wife into a convent, 
and you never saw her more, and there like a sickly flower she 
drooped and pined for him she loved ; for alas ! she loved you 
but too well ; poor thing she suffered not many months, as you 
I well know ; for she died a victim of her father's cruelty, and I 
( alone to close her eyes in death. WLU you spare my boy ? 
Manuel Adorio, oh ! spare him to me ; think what you felt 
when you heard of your wife's death, and think what I feel 

now " 

" Indeed, indeed, Paquita, I have not the power to do it !" 
" Man of blood, you have, I say— oh God 1 he wUl die, and 
none will raise a hand to save him. Adorio, you must save 
him ! nay by heaven, I swear you shall— for die he must not, 
he cannot die. I said," she continued speaking in a hurried 
manner, " that your wife died in these arms ; bidding me, ere 
she died, to seek you out, and tell yon— look, look, they are 
closing in— there is time, speak the word — quick ere it is too 

" I would save him if I had the power !" 
" The gentle lady Inez said not so, when I left the convent. 
After death I bore what she had charged me with unknowTi to 
all ; for years I sought you in vain, but you had changed your 
name ; and when I found you I could not part with my charge, 
it had so twined itself round my heart, I could not part with it. 
I loved it more than all the world ; more than I can tell you 
now ; oh look ! it will be too late ; see — see, they have all 

closed in " 

The Major beckoned to one of the officers, and told him to 
bring Pietro Rimez before him." 

The officer hastened towards them to execute the commands ; 
but just as he arrived at the spot, the report of a volley of 
muskets told it was too late. 

The unhappy Paquita looked pointing in the air with her fin- 
ger but a few moments ; the words could find no utterance ; after. 




a time, however, she exclaimed, still pointing to the spot, " too 
Ilate, too late— he is dead." She then turned towards Adorio, 
her countenance was awful, a deathlike paleness had come over it, 
■whilst her dark eyes seemed almost starting from her head, and 
■with a sad melancholy expression, she said, Manuel Adorio, 
your wife bade me give you one last sad token of her love, and 
one you would dearly prize for her sake ; poor thing, she little 
thought she was wrong, but such as it now is, I give it to you ; 
go, man of blood, and seek amongst the dead bodies of the 
Chapelgorries, until you find one that was once called Pietro 

" Oh God ! what is you mean ? You will drive me mad." 
" Alas ! I fear me much you have driven me so already — but 
let me tell you all, the poor boy is not my son ; he is not born 
of such lowly blood as mine ; he is of noble birth— I say of 
noble birth ; the proudest in all proud Andalusia ; the noblest 
of all Spains' nobles^he is an Alved by his mother's side, his 
father is Don Manuel Adorio ! Seek him I say, and let my 
words ring in your ears by day or night, waking or sleeping. 
You might have saved your son, and you would not, do you 
hear me ?— you would not. I care not now what becomes of 
me ; the world is all a blank for I am like yourself lone and 
desolate ! 


Which appeared in the last number of the " World of Fashion." 

Sir, I have searched my friends around, 

To find a wife for you ; 
And one I know whose mind is sound, 

And yet is not a blue. 

Her eyes are hazel, teeth are white, 

Her lips of coral red ; 
Her long brown hair ('tis rather light) 

In graceful curls is spread. 

■She likes the World of Fashion too, 

And seeks to be well drest ; 
Her hands and feet will likewise do 

To answer your behest. 

And having said thus much, I mean 
To ask. Sir, " Who are you ?" 

Who seek such beauties for your queen, 
'Come tell me, pray Sir, do. 

Say are you tall or short, — or fair 
Or xlark ? — eyes blue or brown ? 

Tell me if curl'd or strait 's your hair ? 
Is your nose up or down ? 

But person 's nought ; — you must possess 
For her some common sense ; 

A heart most true, or you may guess 
She'll quickly send you hence. 

And now good day — stop, I forget — 

There's fortune in the case ; 
She has some fortune. Sir, but yet 

The chief part is her face ! .' ! 




Her's a tale 

Of shame and suffering. Once, upon her cheek 

The story lived, and you might plainly read 

The burning characters : shrinking shame was there ■; 

Beseeching looks ; painful humility. 

And from her face was gone — hope, save when she 

Glanced, in petitioning beauty, to the. skies, 

Seeking reliefer pardon." Barry Cornwall. 

The opera was over, and the house was pouring out all the 
beings who had been listening to almost heaven's music. The 
young, the old, the happy, the wretched, the pure, the wicked, 
the spoiler, and his victim — all side by side, all breathing the 
same atmosphere, and all discussing ■with the same (apparent) 
pleasure, the merits of the performers. 

Two young men who had come out among the first, had sta- 
tioned themselves at one side of the entrance, for the purpose, 
as they expressed it, " of having a good squint at the girls, as 
they came out." Some innocent young creatures shrunk from 
their licentious glances ; others allowed a slight smile to escape 
them ; others, with a withering look, and curl of scorn upon 
their lips, rebuked the insult. At length they seemed satisfied, 
and, as the doors closed, they strolled away. As they proceeded 
up the Haymarket, they passed a miserable female object, who 
was begging of the few indi\'iduals that were then in the street. 
The night air blew coldly, and the poor creature had only rags 
to cover her. A tattered straw bonnet was pulled down over 
her face, as if to hide her features from the world's look. A 
poor little babe was pressed in her arms, covered up as well as 
the mother could cover it, in a threadbare shawl ; but its little 
murmuring whine told that it was cold and wretched. As the 
two companions came by, the mendicant muttered something 
about her wants, but the inner, and younger, one told her " to be 
off to the workhouse ;'' and, with a brutal laugh, he was going 
on ; but the female darted after him, and seizing him by the 
arm, almost shrieked, " Masson ! Masson 1 you must relieve 
me. You must save this child from perishing of famine ; he is 
starving, and he is your's 1 You know it 1 You know it 1 He is 
yours ; and he is dying !" 

Masson was startled : he recognized the female, and imme- 
diately slipping his arm from his friend's, and asking him to 
walk on, he directed an indignant glance at the wretched female, 
and exclaimed, ' ' Girl ! am I never to be relieved from your im- 
portunities ?" 

*' I did not seek you ;" replied the frenzied -wretch, " it was 
your voice that told me who it was." And her tears almost 
ohoked her utterance. " But look," she continued, " look at the 
child ; he is gradually dying with hunger ; I have no food for 
him, nor the means of obtaining food, and have 1 not a right to 
ask protection from his father ? Look at him, George, look at 
his pale face ; his livid lips 1 O, heaven! my child is dying 1" 
And the wild girl, as she uncovered the infant, thrust it before 
her betrayer's face. 

Masson turned away with a blanched cheek, as the boy opened 
his little eyes, and uttered a faint cry, when the cold wind blew 
on him. •' Here, take this," exclaimed the libertine, " and 
never let me see you again ;" and he thrust some money into the 
woman's hand, and turned away with imprecations on his lip, 
and joined his friend ; and he bore with an unblushing brow and 




lavghing face, the latter's jokes upon the " genteel connexions" 
of his companion. 

Six weeks afterward?, the mother and the child were found 
drowned in the Serpentine. 

They were buried and forgotten I 

It was a lovely day in June ; the sun shone brightly, but not 
burningly. The lovely flowers seemed to laugh and quiver with 
joy, as the gentle zephyrs floated over them. There was a rustic 
cottage, thatched, and a verandah in front, with bright roses 

I climbing up each rugged support ; glass doors opened from this 
abode of peace and bliss, upon a smooth and even lawn, and 
upon this lawn, under the shade of a spreading tree, were grouped 
a party of young and happy girls ; the world was as yet an un- 
*■ sealed book to them — a bright garden, filled with blossoms 

which they thought would never fade. Sorrow, to them, was as 
a phantom, which they had heard talk of, but had never seen. 
There was also present, one of the other sex, a military oflicer, 
dressed in fuU regimentals, which, as they showed his fine figure 
and face to the best advantage, gained for him a sunnier smile 
from each of the merry faces round him, than, perhaps, he would 
otherwise have won. They were all seated, some on a rustic 
bench, others on the soft grass ; the officer stood by the side of 
her, to whom, by his attentions, he seemed to be engaged. She 
was the only child of the proprietor of the cottage ; she was not 
beautiful — not even pretty ; but there was something inexpres- 
sibly interesting in the paleness of her drooping eyelids, and the 
joyous look of innocence which spread over her face when she 
smiled. The laugh, the joke, the song, went round ; each dear 
girl strivedto contribute her mite of amusement for the pleasure 
of all. Presently they stole off, some in pairs, others by themselves; 
■all wandered away, till they met again to laugh and talk. Only 
the two whom we have marked out remained of them all. He 
held some bright blue flowers in his hand, and was mixing them 
among the long curls of her really beautiful flaxen hair. 

" Now, Jane, who will dare to say that you are not lovely, when 
I've arrayed these buds ?" whispered George Masson, in his 
most impassioned tone, into the ears of the guileless maid. 

" You know I hate flattery, George ;" answered the girl. 

" Jane," rejoined her companion, resting for a moment in his 
task, and suflfering the silken curls to fall over his fingers, while 
he fixed his eyes — those dark searching eyes — full upon the pale 
face which shrunk and blushed from that look of fondness — deep 
and passionate — which he knew so well how to assume ; " Jane ! 
you cannot love me, or you would not think I flattered.^' 

In answer, the girl looked up with such a gush of fondness 
in her eyes, that it needed no words to tell him that he was the 
whole world, and heaven, to her heart ! 

" He cannot mean what he said ;" exclaimed a pale young 
female, dressed in the extreme of fashion, as she stood at a 
drawing-room window, looking out into the street, as if impa- 
tiently expecting the coming of some one. The room was furnished 
with every little elegance that extravagance could suggest ; 
nothing seemed to be wanting to complete the splendour of the 
scene. " He cannot mean it 1 I will not think so harshly of 
him. No ; he never will abandon me. Me, whom he says that 
he loves so fondly ! so dearly ! Me, who forsook such a pure 
and happy home as I had, for him, where I had the love of so 
many, but left them aU for the love of one ! for him ! No ! no ! 
no 1 'tis only his nonsense. I will not frighten myself." And 
the lady bent her head upon the table, and relieved her anguish 
by a flood of tears ! 

Presently the door opened, and a gentleman in a military 
undress entered the room. The girl looked up, and immediately 
that she recognized him every tear was dried, and she bounded 
to his side, with the blood coursing and rushing through every 
vein 'neath her fair skin. 

" Tears, Jane I" said the officer, when he looked at her pale 

" Yes," murmured the lady, hesitatingly, " I have been low- 
spirited, but I am not so now ; not when you are near." And 
she laid her head upon his bosom, and peering into his face with 
a look of as deep devotion as ever woman felt, encircled his arm 
with both hers, in a fond fold. 

For an instant the officer looked upon that pale face, which 
was upturned to his, like the devoted flower whose face is ever 
constant to the sun, and he felt a transient remorse ; he felt that 
he was the cause of grief to the kind heart which loved him, but 
whose innocence he had blasted, and all the good and pure and 
virtuous feelings which had dwelt therein he had destroyed. 

He smoothed the fair hair which was plainly braided over the 
girl's forehead, and inclining his head, he pressed her burning 
lips to his. 

'• Oh ! George," she exclaimed, with a smile of joy, " now 
I know that you did not mean what you said this morning. I 
thought you would not leave me. Me, who fled from my family, 
friends and home, for you ; cared not for the world's scorn, and 
was thoughtful only of your love. I will be to you as a 
servant : let me but be with you and I shall be happy. You 
cannot — will not — abandon one who for your sake lost her good 
name, her station in society, the world's — her own esteem, and 
has become what I am, a creature of sin and shame and suffer- 
ing. But still, George, I can be happy — very happy — so that 
you do not forsake me !" 

A pause ensued. The officer turned away his face. 

*' Tell me ; tell me, George ;" exclaimed the girl, " that what 
you said this morning were but idle words ; that the story of 
your intended wedding was but an invention to try my love. 
You do not answer me I George ! You are not going to be mar- 
ried—to another !'' 

•' I am ;'' answered Masson, sternly. 

He abandoned her. 

The young pure girl, the mistress, the beggar in the Hay- 
market, the suicide, were one ! Each was Jane West ! 

M. A. S. 

The Hearts of the Young. — If we all had hearts like 
those which beat so lightly in the bosoms of the young and 
beautiful, what a heaven this earth would be 1 If, while our 
bodies grew old and withered, our hearts could but retain their 
early youth and freshness, of what avail would be our sorrows 
and sufi'erings ? But the faint image of Eden, which is stamped 
upon them in childhood, chafes and rubs in our rough struggles 
with the world, and soon wears away ; too often to leave nothing 
but a mournful blank remaining ! 

Cheerfulness. — A woman may be of great assistance to 
her husband, in business, by wearing a cheerful smile continually 
upon her countenance. A man's perplexities and gloominess 
are increased a hundred-fold when his better half moves about 
with a continued scowl upon her brow. A pleasant cheerful 
wife is as a rainbow set in the sky, when her husband's mind is 
tossed with storms and tempests ; but a dissatisfied and fretful 
wife, in the hour of trouble, is like one of those fiends who 
delight to torture lost spirits. 




It is a painful thing to reveal one's own infirmities, and 
especially when there is so little sympathy to be found for them ; 
indeed, I know not that we are entitled to expect any ; and 
why should we be ? We wonder why the world does not sym- 
pathise with us, and lament and inveigh against its selfishness 
accordingly ; but let us ask om'selves the question, " Do ws 
sympathise with the world?'' The answer will in all proba- 
bility account for the conduct of others towards us. We are 
all selfish, one and all, and the feeling is only the more or less 
apparent according to opportunity, or the cause in which it is 
displayed, and that is the whole truth of the matter. 

Well then, I will unbosom my infirmities at once, and may 
the lesson they will impart prove beneficial to young gentlemen 
enthusiasts in the art I had nigh fallen a victim to — the art of 


Nature, in her manifold blessings bestowed upon me at my 
birth, had forgotten (or perhaps never intended) to invest me 
with the organ of " talkativeness." It was with the greatest 
diflBculty that I was prevailed upon to utter my first scream. In 
my infancy I was shy and reserved, and each succeeding year 
the distrust in my loquacious power so grew upon me that in 
my twentieth year I actually turned scarlet in paying a com- 
pliment, or even addressing myself to a pretty woman. To add 
to my misfortunes, I was ambitious — very ambitious of shining 
in the sphere in which I moved ; and more particularly among 
the fairer portion of my acquaintance ; it therefore became my 
study to combat with this unaccountable bashfulness. I could 
not brook the idea of being deemed a stupid say-nothing-for- 
myself youth. I would not suffer myself to be passed over as a 
mere cypher among my more talkative fellows, and I was too 
much in love with " worldly opinion" to be altogether heedless 
of what anybody thought fit to say of me. 

Thus a whirlwind of contending emotions arose in my breast, 
and the consequence was, that, not being able to gain ray point 
over my natural propensity, I became thoughtful and despond- 
ing, took to writing poetry (chiefly relating to the moon, eyes, 
and melancholy) and strove to make up by other and equally 
powerful means, for my extreme diffidence in all matters in which 
the tongue bore the prominent part ; persuading myself I had 
that within to lead captive every haughty maiden in the uni- 
verse ; albeit they, as yet knew it not. 

I argued that as the spirit of romance was not wholly extinct 
in the land — inasmuch as I possessed it in no small degree, it 
was my duty to fan the flame burning at my heart, and, as 
soon as the idea once took seat in my brain, my whole efforts 
were bent upon becoming a romantic, ergo, in the acceptation of 
the term at the present day— an eccentric character. 

This was to be achieved by " effects." 

I had one day, by the merest chance, overheard a soubrette 
remark, that I possessed " a very killing pair of eyes." This, 
of course, let loose all the springs of my vanity, and a fresh 
impetus was thereby added to my resolution. 

Alas ! what bubbles ; what card-palaces ! — How frail, how 
perishable are all our projects — what a silly thing is man ! 

The inexperienced reader will doubtless wonder what is meant 
by " effects." I will endeavour as briefly as possible to unravel 
the mystery. 

We, that is ' We, the people of England,' are terrible 
idolaters, and Fashion is our Juggernaut. Now, to be admitted 
among what is termed the "fashionable class ," appearances 
must essentially be the main object of our study. We are 

accordingly anxious that wherever we are seen we should be 
seen with ^'effect;'' for instance, we should be inevitably and 
irrevocably disgraced were we to be seen perambulating the Park 
on foot, or touching the unclassic soil of the ' sister Park' in a 
walk to or from the Zoological Gardens ; whereas, on the other 
hand, we should rise considerably in fashionable estimation, 
could our ' set" but perceive us driving the Duke of Bolino, or 
riding by the carriage of the Ladies Frances and Mary Tum- 
tiddle. Our little Drama should be replete with these "effec- 
tive situations," or it will most assuredly prove a complete 
failure. There are, however, numerous " minor effects" which 
may be brought about in various ways, and to which, as con- 
tributing in a great measure to its success, it is our duty to 
give our serious attention. 

To these latter, then, my mind was chiefly turned ; and, ever 
desirous of being thought singular, I endeavoured to shape my 
course differently from the herd. 

Accordingly, with all due alacrity, I entered upon my under- 
taking, the London season had commenced, and the metropolis 
was unusually full. I habited myself invariably in black, and 
being somewhat tall, and exceedingly pale and meagre, by that 
means, acquired a sepulchral appearance, perfectly in consonnance 
with my design ; my hair (a rich jet) was deprived of all right and 
title to my brow, and suffered to sport to the full scope of my 
shoulders ; my few whiskers were shaved off, and slight mus- 
tachios and a large tuft were cultivated in their stead. In the 
park, I rode a coal-black charger with the air of one superior 
to my feUows (mem. three times with my arm in a sling, to 
carry an air of interest). At the opera my eyes were never 
once taken from off the prima donna while the curtain was up, 
and she on the stage, nor from vacancy when it was down, and 
she — I cannot precisely say where ; although I plainly saw who 
were in the boxes on either side of me, and distinctly heard what 
they were saying behind and above. At the baU, my position 
was invariably at the doors of the apartments, notwithstanding 
the perpetual warnings of stiff-necks and rheumatism {mem. 
once, indeed, this rule was trangressed, by my venturing at a 
small soiree to lean semicirculary over the pianoforte ; but that 
occurred when a maiden relation, whom I cared nothing at all 
about, was stationed at the instrument, labouring under the 
fond delusion that she was singing (?) an air from " IPuritani." 

Weeks passed on ; I attended the opera, concerts, balls, in 

fact, every gaiety the season afforded, and I was in a constant 

deluge of excitement. One night, I fancied the Honourable 

Miss Hautleroi my slave ; but the next she took no notice 

whatever of her victor. Another time, I imagined I had 

wounded the dashing Countess of Rattleville beyond all hope of 

recovery, — when I met her again, she was healing the smart by 

a flirtation with Captain Fitz-Puff ; but the crisis was yet to 

come, and that not far distant, so my vanity led me to believe, 

when I was to be the idol of the other sex and the envy of my 

own. Could I but make one worthy conquest — an heiress 1 I 

was rather in want of ready money too, — and then the triumph 1 

— " noiis verrons.** 


It so happened, that as I was fitting out by a few preparatory 
slumbers and declined invitations, for the tremendous wear and 
tear of the last month of the London season, the very month in 
which I had determined upon making the too-long delayed sen- 
sation, an old school-fellow, whom I had not met for years, 
presented himself at my lodgings, and solicited the favour of 
being chaperoned by me into the fashionable world. Now this 
individual was in appearance the direct opposite to anything i» 



the shape of the romantic ; his whole manner denoted him to 
be a lover of the good substantial things of this earth. He was 
excessively fat, had light-blue eyes and very light-brown hair, 
and stood only five feet and a half in his shoes. He talked, in- 
deed raved, agreat deal about the softer sex it is true, but it was 
as a jockey talks of his mare ; no sentiment, no poetry, no 
unearthly feeling — iu short, nothing romantic shone forth in his 
composition. As fate would have it, I immediately undertook 
the office required — not from relish, but from compulsion ; my 
fat fi'iend had on many occasions been a true friend to me, so I 
resolved for once to sacrifice myself to another, and accordingly 
shaking Mr. George Bantam's hand with warmth, we entered 
together into the vortex of gaiety and dissipation. Could I 
but then have known how great the sacrifice I had made ! — But 
I anticipate. * * * 

The season was just concluded ; it was July, and all the 
world were on the qui vive at the prospect of moving to the 
favoured watering-places. I was reclining, languid and musing, 
on the sofa, a card for the last grand ball at my feet, when 
Bantam entered the apartment ! What I had endured on that 
man's account, it is out of the compass of words to describe. I 
had taken him, at his urgent entreaty, to nearly every soiree I 
myself had attended ; and he had bounded into the midst of rank 
and fashion with all the playfulness of an awkward puppy, 
emerging for the first time, into a farm yard ; nothing could 
restrain his ardour ; he danced, laughed, and talked till the very 
perspiration rolled down liis cheeks, and being perfectly in good 
humour with himself, he naturally enough thought thateveryone 
must be in good humour with him— the cub ! I fancied I beheld 
looks of disdainful enquiry cast towards him ; I imagined that 
/ was pointed out as the introducer, and (why should I longer 
conceal my disgrace ?) I attributed my constant failure in work- 
ing out my " effects," to the fact of my being seen with him. 

As he approached me, I was struck Ijy the great change which 
had taken place in his appearance ; he had certainly im- 
proved, though by slow degrees, from the raw country boor he 
first presented himself to me, but he uow seemed to have under- 
gone a complete and sudden transformation ; his hair was drawn 
(like mine) over the back of his ears, giving to the cheeks a 
richer display of their plumpness ; his eyes glared wildly ; his 
lip as if in scorn at something evidently in his mind's eye ; and 
he had not taken the trouble of shaving ; he was habited iu a 
figured dressing gown some inches too long for him ; his slip- 
pers were down at heel ; his stockings were dangling pleasantly 
over his slippers ; in his right hand he held a lengthy Turkish 
pipe, which he had just been smoking ; and in his left a volume 
of Victor Hugo which he had just been (anything but) reading. 
It appeared a burlesque on myself ! 

" Good heavens T' I exclaimed, " George, what have you 
been doing to yourself?" 

'* Doing to myself— ha ! — " 

" Yes — doing to yourself? — I repeat the question." 

'* Studying to be romantic !'' was the reply. 

I thought he was insane ; but on reflection altered my mind ; 
I laughed immoderately and bitterly, as I continued — 

" And what has put this motion into your head ?" 

" You ; yourself and " he hesitated. 

" And who ? — or what ?'' 

" No matter !" 

" Nay. I must know what co-adjutor I havehadin working 
so important and unexpected an event !'' 

" You shall know all in good time." 

" Hum -you were at the Apsleys' last night ?" 

" True.— As you were too lazy to accompany me, I ventured 
alone !" 

" So— so ; it was there, then — " 

" I tell you, it is useless attempting to fathom.— Do you go 
to the Hasselby's ?'' 

" Why, I have a card for myself.'' 

" Then we will go as usual, together .'" 

And to add to my catalogue of misfortunes, he produced his 
invitation from his pocket-book. 

" Here is my card," said he, " received this morning. A 
late invitfition , but not the less welcome." 

Now the Hasselby's gave the best parties in town. I had 
meant to attend without his knowledge ; it was my last resource 
— my forlorn hope (for that season at least) and I had wound 
myself up to a determination of making a desperate push. The 
identical aforesaid card at my feet had been sent to me a week 
before, and for a whole week I had been feeding on hope. What 
was to be done ? He ivould go ! I resolved upon leaviug him on 
the first favourable opportunity. 

" But you will not go iu this new character ?" I remarked. 

" Indeed, but I shall; I could not now do otherwise," he 
replied, with an air of mystery I did not condescend to notice. 
My resolution was considerably strengthened. 

We dined. After the meal I repaired to my toilette, and 
spent two hours iu habiting myself with all becoming care ; 
having hired a French hair-dresser to set in order my streaming 
locks, and an unfortunate supernumerary of a minor theatre to 
suggest for my guidance a few most esteemed melodramatic 
positions. I stood before the mirror in every attitude my 
dramatic Mentor considered romantic and effective; and so 
pleased was I with my ' tiut ensemble,' that I positively roared 
with ecstasy at the prospect of the triumph I must achieve. 

My delicious dream was of short duration ; a slight tap was 
audible at my door, and Bantam stepped in, habited — oh 
horrors !— from top to toe as myself ! A suit of black closely 
covered his bulky person, giving him somewhat the appearance 
of an animated pincushion ; his collars were turned down a la 
Byron, leaving for the admiration of the world, a neck which 
would have done honour to any moderately-sized ox in her 
Majesty's dominions ; and yet now I re-consider the matter 
calmly, much as I loathed the sight of him then, I do not think 
he was by any means a " bad-looking fellow,'' But enough ! 
The coach was at the door ; we entered ; and were shortly 
ushered into the saloon of the Hasselbys. 

Oh ! it was a most gorgeous and magnificent spectacle, I 
remember it well, and good reason have I to do so. The superb 
French clock, representing the trial of skill between Apollo and 
Pan, was about six-and-twenty minutes to one. I was stationed 
at the door— when it first struck me that the wealthy, beautiful, 
and much sought after Arabella Apsley had darted her piercing 
eyes towards me, more than once. I shifted my position, thrust 
my hand into my bosom, sighed, and looked up to the ceiling ; 
again she gazed upon me ; there could be no doubt that / was 
the object of her attention. I drew forth a white cambric 
handkerchief, and folding my arms, dangled it over the left 
elbow; thinking the contrast of black and white "effective;" 
again she turned those magic orbs towards me, and there was a 
smile upon her features ! I was transported beyond measure. 
There could be no now doubt but that I had created an impression : 
and she was the fifth richest heiress iu London ! I flew down 
stairs, called ostentatiously for a glass of ice, swallowed it in 
one spoonful, and inwardly sang over some dozen of French 
romances. It may be asked, what earthly motive I had for so 



doing'? To this I reply, " l am the creature of impulse, and 
was following implicitly her "dictates;" mayhap it was to 
refresh myself for further conquests. Again I mounted the 
staircase, there she was, beauteous as ever, in the midst of a 
waltz; but — could my eyes deceive me? No 1 The coarse 
vulgar arm of Bantam, encircled her slender waist 1 Strauss's 
melodies ran dizzily through my brain as I watched the intri- 
cate mazes of that never-to-be-forgotten waltz. I stood in a 
complete state of stupefaction^ petrified to the spot, when lo ! 
there was a pause,— and the lovely Arabella pointed towards 
me ! Bantam smiled ; it was evident / was the theme of their 
discourse. A light, or rather (as it afterwards proved) an ignis 
fatuus burst upon me ; she was smitten with me, and he was the 
tool, the mere vehicle for an introduction ; moreover, my habits 
and employments being so well known to one in whose company 
I was so often seen, sha would hear all respecting me from him. 
Ignorance is bliss, and never did I feel the truth more forcibly 
than at that moment. They passed me arm-in-arm, the " gayest 
of the gay." Would he introduce me ? I could have sunk into 
a nutshell ! No introduction, however, took place, and my 
mind grew gradually more composed; " Beautiful creature !" 
I inwardly exclaimed, " Thou art mine for ever !" 

Two— three o'clock— stiU at one another's side— most strange, 
but most conclusive ! I motioned Bantam ; he tore himself 
away from the scene, and placing my arm in his, we walked 
leisurely homeward. 

Three lamp-posts were passed without a word. Ere we had 
traversed so much ground, I had expected to have heard every 
hint thrown out by my charmer regarding myself ; " Odd,'' 
thought I, and began, tremblingly, the conversation : — 
" George," said I, " you had a lovely partner !"^ 

" Think so ? And what is more " 

" Speak !— What ?" 

" So do I ." 

This was accomplished by a vulgar twitch of the arm, he 
knowingly favoured. My pulse beat high. 

" George ! there was a meaning in that movement." 
" To be sure there was. — Ain't I a lucky dog ?" 
And the wretch actually attempted to persuade me that 
Arabella Apsley had fallen a victim to him ! 

Here then was the solution of the morning's riddle. Love 
had made him a devotee of romance. — And of what a romance ! 
I was silent during the remaindei of the walk ; and, indeed, 
my fat frieind was so busied in deicribing his extraordinary 
powers of conquest over females, that I could scarcely have been 

I gathered this, however, from his loquacity ;— Arabella was 
in the habit, when the weather permitted, of strolling into the 

gardens of Square, where she resided. Now we, i.e. 

Bantam and myself, were engaged with a party the ensuing 
night for the theatre ; and I resolved, on the plea of illness, 
to slip away from my companions, and, come what might, 
hazard the chance of a meeting, even though I said nothing. 
On the following evening everything occurred that my most san- 
guine anticipations could have required. I escaped from my noisy 

associates with little difficulty, and wandered towards • 

Square. There was a calmness, a repose, in the air quite irre- 
sistible. Arabella must come forth to taste of it ! After 
bribing a sentimental-looking Abigail to give me admittance, 
I entered the garden ; and, having reconnoitred a little, sta- 
tioned myself, bravo-like, against a huge tree in earnest expec- 
tation of beholding her in whom my romance was now wholly 
centered. Suddenly, there was a rustling sound behind me, 

and two — no, one fairy form, and one rather unfairy-like, passed^ 
close at my side ! It was Arabella Apsley, accompanied by 
what was, doubtless, intended to represent her duenna {gover- 
ness for a maiden of nineteen is unromantic, and savors of 
boarding-schools and bread-and-butter). She saw me ; for I. 
felt the blood mount instantaneously to my cheeks ; — whether 
from cold or not, I cannot positively affirm, for it was in July ; 
but the last-mentioned lady walked considerably faster than her 
charge, and when they re-passed me, Arabella was much in the 
rear. This time, the bewitching heiress, seemingly conscious of 
her loneliness, looked back timidly, retraced a few steps, hesi- 
tated, then advanced, blushing, towards the spot where I was 
standing, — a deeply-interested spectator. She accosted me ;. 

" Sir 1" 

What were my sensations at that word — that one monosyl- 
labic word — " Sir !" She, whom I would'have given worlds to 
address, was now before me — addressing me / My face was 
crimson ; my knees tottered under me. I could have wished 
the earth " to open its jaws," and devour me 1 

" It may appear strange " 

"No — no ; — n — o — n— o,'' muttered I, endeavouring to 
assume what novel-writers term " a peculiarly bland yet manly 
voice 1'' 

She took no notice of the interruption, and continued : — 

" It may appear strcinge that one in my situation of life 
should venture to address a perfect stranger ; — but, you are 
romantic " 

I stammered assent to the fact. 

" Andean, therefore, lend sympathy to me." 

I think I said, " I can." 

" You will not, then, refuse to undertake the delivery of 
this." A note was put into my hand. 

" No — no — no ! — of course— certainly not !" 

So, she had written her declaration of love ! Modest, yet 
fondly adoring girl 1 I took the hillet, and pressed it to my 
lips ; my white handkerchief was placed before my eyes ; I fell 
on my knees, and poured forth a torrent of everything amiable in 
human nature ; then, seizing what, in my frenzy, I imagined 
to be her delicate hand, rose to fold her in my arms, — but on 
drawing down the cambric which impeded my vision, I made 
the discovery that I had grasped nothing more nor less that the 
support of that dreaded warning to the canine race, " No dogs 
admitted." She was gone ! 

It was dusk. I again sought the streets, and, by the light 
of the lamp, perused the following. It was written in pencil. 

"Arabella Apsley accepts the offer made to her, and will . 
be in readiness at two in the morning, — the time appointed." 

The offer made— the time appointed ! So 1 1 attributed all to 
the glances of my " killing eyes." They had done all, every- 
thing I could have desired ; and here, here was the blissful 
reply. I madly kissed the strip of paper, and was preparing to 
place it in my waistcoat-pocket, judging it convenient to see 
about a post-chaise, when some evil genius tempted me to look 
at the superscription. I did so, and read "George Bantam,. 
Esq., care a£ " my unlucky self. 

Yes ; Bantam had won the heart of the heiress at her own 
ball ; had followed up the victory the ensuing night at the 
Hasselby's, had offered the next morning, and had received a 
written acceptance of his offer but a few hours after it had 
been made ; and I oh woman, woman I what an extra- 
ordinary taste is yours ! 

I believe I swooned. I believe I laid on the pavement till 
picked up by a policeman. I believe I never touched a morsel. 



of food for three whole days. I repeat, / believe all this ; / 
A«ow that, very shortly after the occurence above related, I 
packed up my " effects,''' and set out for the residence of an 
old uncle in Devonshire, whose repeated invitations I had ever 
treated with disregard, and in whose good graces I so con- 
trived to rise, that, at his death, he left me not only a 
•'wiser and better" but also "a richer" man. 

P.S. — [I understand Mr. and Mrs. B. are leading a very 
pleasant rural life in the county of ; the former hav- 
ing thrown up his short-lived "romance," and taken to the 
study of the "agricultural interests,'' and, also, of the best 
means of gratifying his wife's every wish, she (so I am told) 
having settled into a sedate country-gentlewoman. In conclu- 
sion, I beg to make one remark, called for by my having seen of 
late a number of young gentlemen take to wearing mustachios, 
tufts, &c., to combing their hair backward (" against tide" as 
the watermen would say) looking with a peculiarly melancholy 
and suspicious aspect at any innocent individuals who may 
presume to approach them, and indulging in various other 
little eccentricities. It is this : — I am the originator of the 
romanesque habits of la jeune Anglolse.'^'} 

{Siyned) NEMO. 

Youth Questioning Age on Life's Mysteries. 

Say what is Youth .' 'Tis a radiant day. 
When Folly and Mirth together can stray ; 
'Tis a stream of light midst life's dark dye, 
'Tis a sunny cloud on a winter's sky. 

And say what is Hope ? 'Tis the infant smile 
That promises well, and our hours beguile ; 
But like the mirage it passes away. 
Or a moment's light on a stormy day. 

And say what is love ? — for they talk of this 
As a hope of peace, and a thought of bliss ; 
Thou art skill'd in words, then answer me pray. 
Shall I find Love true, as the poet's say ? 

Go watch the wide deep in the wild spring-tide, 
How long will each wave remain by thy side ? 
Or watch the lightnings, how have they past ? 
Then know 'tis no longer that Love will last, 

. Say what is Friendship ? A sacred thing. 
Alone of the lightest imagining ; 
What man may seek for o'er city and plain ; 
The light of all lights that's sought for in vain. 

Then, tell me, old man, what are time and life ? 
Life is a journey of pleasure and strife ; 
O'er sunny vallies, and high hills of snow, 
An hour of bliss — an hour of woe. 

Go ask yonder ruin, upon the bleak moor, 
What from its bright walls the battlements tore, 
And placed in their stead the ivy and weed ? 
'Twill answer 'twas Time, 'twas Time did the deed. 

Look on the borders of yonder dark bay, 
A once gallant bark, a shell does she lay ; 
Once swan-like she sailed from far clime to clime- 
Say was not her foe the rough sea of Time ? 

Oh, stay thee ! old man — oh, stay ! cried the youth,. 
Sad are thy stories, if all are the truth ; 
Fain would I turn, nor through life's journey go, 
But cannot believe that Time is a foe. 

Dear youth, I'd not have thee sad from my tale, 
Hail Hope, Love, and Friendship ; if they should fail,. 
Could 1 meet thee in age, when thy dark hair is white, 
Oh, then would I ask if my stories were right. 


Why give our hearts to things of clay, 
Since every tie must pass away ; 

Since every pleasure, hope, and joy, 

Must find on earth a sad alloy ; 
And pass as swift as shadows glide. 
Or wave upon the ocean tide. 

Why love we things of earth } 

Yes, all we love must droop and die, 

As sounds upon the breeze flit by ; 

Each eye grown dim, each feature change. 
Each smile grow cold, each heart grow strange, 

Each flowret droop, each beauty pass. 

And vanish as doth breath on glass 

Then why love things of earth ? 

Since life, like day, must have its night, 
As well as evanescent light ; 

As shadows, sunshines, clouds, and storms, 

A rose's bloom — a rose's thorns — 
A treacherous sea where all seems fair. 
Though shoals and rocks are hidden there. 

Forget all things of earth ! 

Forget them — yes, forget them all. 

As you would 'scape some painful thrall ; 

As you would shun some precipice. 

Some sea-girt rock, some deep abyss, 
A desert land, — a poisonous flower, 
A treach'rous friend, — a dying hour. 

Forget all things of earth ! 

We say forget ! 'tis hard to tear 

The hues from flowers and leave them bare ; 

'Tis hard to hate what once we love, 

Howe'er perverse that thing may prove. 
We may forgive — love may be set, 
But O ! we never can forget 

Those passings things of earth I 

Then let us blend hopes of this home. 
With thoughts of that which is to come ; 
Whate'er of earth is passing by, 
Whate'er may cause us smile or sigh ; 
What friends depart, what hearts be riven, 
Shall but remind us more of heaven. 

And tell us of that sunny day, 
When •• earth itself shall pass away." 






" It is the spirits bitterest paiu 
To love, to be beloved again : 
And yet between a gulf which ever 
The hearts which burn to meet must sever." — Byrox. 

Of all the beauties of the sunny land of Italy, the heiress of 
the ducal house of Clavalla was the chief in the estimation of 
the gallants of the Italian aristocracy. She was an embodiment 
of the most poetical idea of grace ; Canova might have consulted 
the rounded lines of her countenance with advantage. Lucia had 
many lovers, but she gave ear to none, and was therefore ac- 
counted proud. It is the custom of the world to call those proud 
whose characters they do not understand ; and Lucia of Cla- 
valla, was considered proud because she disdained to mix with 
the cold and heartless throng of rivals, whose greatest pleasure 
consisted in backbiting their friends ; and because she rejected 
the offers made by the richest and handsomest of the youths of 
the Italian aristocracy for her heart and hand. But who, that 
had seen Lucia of Clavalla in her retirement, when she quitted 
the gay and festive scenes of fashion, where so many false hearts 
are present, and so few that are true and sincere, and saw her 
listening delightedly to the eloquence of Claudio, her page, ac- 
companying him in his sweet songs, and herself singing occasion- 
ally as he struck the music from the golden wires of the harp, 
who would then have accounted Lucia proud ? But no eye 
penetrated into the private apartments of Lucia ; even her family 
refrained from entering them without permission, and thus the 
mutual love which existed, between the lady and her page was 
known to none but themselves and heaven. 

It was an innocent and virtuous love. Lucia loved Claudio, 
not for his personal beauty alone, which was great, but for his 
talents, his modesty, his virtues. She had imagined a lover in 
her earliest days, in whom all personal graces were combined 
with intellectual power and moral worth, and she had found the 
creation of her fancy realized in Claudio. But he was only her 

She knew that their love would be unhappy ; she knew that 
her high-born sire, the Duke de Clavalla, would never counte- 
nance the attachment, and that once known she must bid adieu 
to happiness. Indeed, Claudio had often spoken of the unhappy 
nature of their love, but she had as often gently rebuked him for 
idly picturing ills, and encouraged the passion which it was her 
duty to check and destroy. But who can be prudent that loves ? 
It is easy to set rules for the heart ; but who that has A heai-t 
can follow them. 

At length an offer was made for Lucia's hand, and her father 
commanded her to accept it. And now was Lucia conscious of 
her folly, in encouraging the love of Claudio. She prayed and 
entreated of her parent to abandon his intention of manning her 
to the Marquis Vicenza, but the Duke was a stern and resolute 
man, and he peremptorily insisted upon her compliance. What 
could Lucia do ? She knew that poor Claudio's heart would 
break if he were forsaken ; yet the honour of her noble house, 
the happiness of her father, were to be secured, and long was 
the struggle between pride and love, which terminated in the 
triumph of the former, and Lucia resolved to see her humble 
lover no more. 

She signed the order for his dismissal from his situation as 
page, and as the pen made its last stroke upon the paper, she 
involuntarily cried, " now farewell to happiness !" 

With the fatal order to Claudio, his mistress sent him a purse 
of gold, and bade her messenger tell him how sorry she was to 
part with him, but that a father's commands were upon her to 
marry Vicenza, and she should not require a separate establish- 

Poor Claudio was heart-stricken by these tidings ; he would 
not accept the proffered gold, and with the purse was returned 
all the rich gifts which Lucia had lavished upon him, and with 
them, also, these lines. 

" Take back thy gifts, thou noble dame. 
Gifts that might courtly homage claim ; 
This ring is circled by diamonds bright. 
This chain is flashing with ruby light. 
This emerald ^\Teath once bound thy curls, 
And thy waist was clasp'd by this zone of pearls ; 
Lady, such gifts were unwish'd by me. 
And I lov'd them but as bestow'd by thee. 

Pledgf.- so splendid I could not impart, 
My poor return was a faithful heart ; 
But now that our gifts we each resign, 
Lady, how sad an exchange is mine ; 
Thy glittering gems are still gay and bright. 
And may charm a high-born lover's sight ; 
But the humblest maid v\ ill spurn a token 
Like the heart thy treachery has broken." 

Lucia was gazing with tearful eyes upon these returned gifts, 
and these passionate lines, and wishing that death would termi- 
nate the sufferings of her young heart, when suddenly a 
heavily-breathed sigh fell upon her ears : she started, and, 
turning suddenly, beheld the Marquis Vicenza ! 

She hastily gathered together the precious gems, and hid the 
letter in her bosom ; but the ilarquis caught her hand, and 
sitting down beside her, mildly said, " Heaven forbid, gentle 
maiden, that I should come between two young hearts, and rob 
them of their happiness. Accident has made me acquainted with 
the secret of yoiu- love. Be not afraid ; confide in me ; let me 
know all your secret. I now know that I cannot become your 
husband, but should feel most happy if I were permitted to be- 
come fair Lucia's friend." 

The manner in which Vicenza uttered these words was so 
persuasive that Lucia could not doubt the sincerity of his pro- 
fessions ; she looked up into his face, and thanked him with her 

" You love another," he observed, " audit woiild seem from 
your silence respecting the state of your affections, that his rank 
is beneath your own." He paused, and Lucia making no reply, 
Vicenza continued, " Well, do not despond, dear Lucia, for so I 
wiU call you, claiming the privilege of a friend ; we are not able 
to control our destiny, and far be it from my wish to censure 
the pure disinterested affection of lovely woman. Is your father 
aware of this ?'' 

" O, no ;" exclaimed Lucia, " nor would I for worlds suffer 
the secret of my hopeless love to come to his knowledge." 

" You think he would be offended : I think so too : but we 
may both be in error : at any rate I wiU endeavour to restore 
to your breast that happiness which I have been the innocent 
cause of banishing." 

Vicenza departed to seek the Duke ; he found him in his 
library. " We.l, my dear Duke," he observed, " I have thought 
of our agreement more deeply, and am not disposed now to fulfil 
my part of it." 



How ! Marquis 1 my daughter is • 

" Your daughter is not for me, my dear Duke. The fact is, 
I am a strange fickle being, and, anxious as I was to marry the 
fair Lucia this morning, I have changed my mind." 

" Marquis 1 Do you intend this as an insult to me ?" 

" By no means, my dear Duke, and to convince you that I 
do not, I make you another offer ; I will abandon my claim 
upon your purse, if you will allow your daughter to marry whom 
she pleases." 

The Duke was surprised by the strangeness of this request. 
He was a man of immense wealth, and of a parsimonious dis- 
position. At an entertainment given by one of his friends, 
however, he had taken more than his usual quantity of wine, 
and had sat down at the card table, where he had lost a very 
large sum to the Marquis Viceuza. The latter had promised to 
abandon his claim, however, on condition of receiving the hand 
of the beautiful Lucia. To save his money, the sordid Duke 
would have sacrificed his child 1 

Vicenza had now proposed a substitute ; and long and 
animated was the conversation that ensued between him and 
the Duke ; but Vicenza prevailed, and the bond was exchanged 
for a consent to the marriage of Lucia with her humble lover. 

The page was recalled from exile ; and Lucia and Claudio 
were made happy. 

"You did not forget me !" whispered Claudio, as he pressed 
his warm lips to Lucia's cheek. 

" Forget you, Claudio !" murmured the happy girl — 

" Forget thee 1 No. For many a day 

This cheek was pale, these eyes were wet, 
This faithful heart was wrung with pain ; 

I loved ; and I could not forget ! 
Then wherefore breathe that idle word, 

I could not be the thing thou fearest ; 
Though here thy name was never heard. 

To me 'twas more than life, — 'twas dearest t'^ 


I asked a bird that was singing, 

On a blighted forest tree — 
Why it left the graceful birch to breathe,, 

From this, its melody ? 
And it warbled this answer plaintively. 

Close to my listening ear — 
" Should we ever forget the loving heart,. 

The heart that erst was dear ? 
This tree, in its youthful beauty dress'd, 
Oft sheltered me in its faithful breast ; 
And can I forsake it now, when none 
Beside may smile on my perished one V^ 

I questioned a glovidng sunbeam, 

(A truant at evening's close !) 
Why it passed the gaudy tulip's bloom, 

To smile on a faded rose ; 
And the bright ray deepened in beauty,. 

As the breeze bore its answer by — 
*' Oh ! false is the love and fleeting, 

That will with its object die i 

The balmy breath of my cherished flow'p, 
Oft cooled my brow in the sultry hour ; 
And can I (like the things of earth) forget 
The light that cheered, but that now has set ?" 

Oh I do they not teach us a lesson^ 

That bird, and the glorious sun — 
To prize as earth's greatest blessing. 

The heart that we once have won ? 
And not by a cold glance chill it, 

Then smile on the wreck we see ; 
For sad is the heart of the scorner, 

Wherever his lot may be. 
And bird and beam, with their deathless love. 
Bear type of the spirit that dwells above ; 
Be true to Him, and thine age shall be 
Cheered, as the forest's blighted tree ! 


Though sorrow claims affections tear 

In hours when sad and lone ; 
Though I must weep the memory dear, 

Of friends for ever flown \ 
There is one thought that yet may tend. 

To bring hope back to me ; 
The thought that I at eve shall spend 

One happy hour with thee. 

Though Fate my weary steps shall call, 

Where none may know my grief ; 
Though round my head misfortunes fall. 

Thick as th' Autumnal leaf. 
Still blissful dreams will ever blend 

Their fairy forms for me ; 
Blest with the thought at eve to spend 

One happy hour with thee. 

Though Fortune, with her winning smile,. 

Desert me in my need ; 
Though in this world — from pain and toii 

I never may be freed, 
There is one hope, that in the end. 

Hath heaven in store for me ; 
The thought that I at eve shall spend, 

One happy hour with thee. 

I sigh not now — o'er what hath been, 

Long sunk in Lethe's stream ; 
No change of friends — no change of scene. 

Can mar my youthful dream — 
Then blest be fate, which thus could send, 

Such store of joys to me ; 
And doubly blest, dear girl, to spend 

One happy hour with thee. 

Goods of Life. — The greatest pleasure of life is love ; the? 
greatest possession is health ; the greatest ease is sleep ; and the 
greatest medicine is a true friend, to observe and tell one of one's 
faults, whom one has reason to esteem, and is apt to believe 




Mr. Editor. — I have read the biographical account of the 
Earl of Durham, in the last number of The World of Fashion 
with much pleasure ; but you have omitted the highly interest- 
ing legend which is preserved in the family, and of which, as 
you may not be in possession of it, I send you a copy, trusting 
that you will agree with me in opinion, that it will not only 
complete your biography, but also prove a subject of great 
interest to all your readers. It is as follows : — The heir of 
Lambton, fishing, as was his profane custom, in the Wear, on a 
Sunday, hooked a small worm or eft, which he carelessly threw 
into a well, and thought no more of the adventure. The worm 
(at first neglected) grew till it was too large for its first habita- 
tion, and issuing forth from the "worm well," betook itself to 
the Wear, where it usually lay a part of the day coiled round 
a craig in the middle of the water ; it also frequented a green 
mound near the well (the worm hill), where it lapped itself nine 
times round, leading vermicular traces, of which, grave living 
•witnesses depose that they have seen vestiges. It now became 
the terror of the country, and, amongst other enormities, levied 
a daily contribution of nine cow's milk, which, was always 
placed for it at the green hill, and in default of which, it 
devoured man and beast. Young Lambton had, it seems, 
meanwhile, repented him of his former life and conversation, had 
bathed himself in a bath of holy water, taken the sign of the 
cross, and joined the Crusaders. On his return home, he was 
extremely shocked at witnessing the effects of his youthful 
imprudencies, and immediately undertook the adventure. After 
several fierce combats, in which the Crusader was foiled by his 
enemy's power of self-union, he found it expedient to add 
policy to courage, and not possessing much of the former 
quality, he went to consult a witch, or wise woman. By her 
judicious ad\ace he armed himself in a coat of mail, studded 
•with razor-blades, and thus prepared, placed himself on the 
craig in the river, and w^aited the monster's arrival. At the 
usual time the worm came to the rock, and wound himself with 
great fury round the armed Knight, -who had the satisfaction to 
see his enemy cut in pieces by his cwn eflforts, whilst the stream 
■washing away the severed parts, prevented the possibility of a 
reunion. There is still a sequel to the story. The witch had 
promised Lambton success only on one condition, that he should 
slay the first living thing that met his sight after the victory. To 
avoid the possibility of human slaughter, Lambton had directed 
his father, that as soon as he had heard him sound three blasts 
on his bugle, in token of achievement performed, he should 
release his favourite greyhound, which would immediately fly to 
the sound of the horn, and was destined to be the sacrifice. On 
hearing his son's bugle, however, the old chief was so over- 
joyed, that he forgot the injunctions, and ran himself -with open 
arms to meet his soon. Instead of committing a parricide, the 
conqueror repaired again to his adviser, who pronounced, as the 
alternative of disobeying the original instructions, that no chief 
of the Lambtons should die in his bed for seven (^or as some 
account say) for nine generations — a communication which, to 
a martial spirit, had nothing probably very terrible, and which 
■was willingly complied with. — I am, Sir, your constant Sub- 
scriber. A. E. Z. 
Belgrave Square, May 6th, 1838. 


The saddest lesson •^hich experience teaches man is a know- 
ledge of the true nature of love. It is in vain that the whole 
course of tale and history assures us of the evanescent, transi- 
tory character of this passion — it is in vain that our own obser- 
vation confirms the truth, and shows us that the sensation is as 
brief as it is delightful. What man in love for the first time 
could ever be induced to believe that the delicious sentiment 
which absorbs or excludes every other feeling of his bosom must 
sooner or later die a natural death, and be extinguished in its 
own gratification ? True, it may be succeeded by a tender and 
aflFectionate attachment, by firm and lasting friendship ; but the 
glory, the enthusiasm, the celestial exaltation of true passion, 
■when it first overcomes us, must pass away. How ridiculous, 
then, to abuse men for their ■want of constancy. Could we 
command our afi"ections who would cease to love ? who would 
throw away the treasure which constitutes his happiness, and 
which he values more than all the riches of the world ? It is in 
spite of ourselves— in spite of our utmost efforts to recal our 
first enthusiasm — that we gradually begin to view the one-loved 
face with indifference, and to feel that her society has no longer 
a spell for our disenchanted minds. To love is to be blest, and 
who that found himself in Eden would voluntarily leave it ? jt 
is customary to talk as if the inconstant man made a selfish 
gain by his change of sentiment ; but what can he profit by 
the decay of the sweetest sentiment of our nature ? As ■well 
rail at the capitalist because he gets rid of his depreciated 
securities. Alas, it is ■with a heavy heart that he parts with 
bonds once the representatives of thousands for a fraction of 
their original value. But it is ■with a far profounder sentiment 
of despair that the man ef reflection perceives his warmest and 
most cherished feelings ■will not abide the withering touch of 
time and custom, and that the love he fondly deemed eternal 
has hardly the durability of an autumn flower, 

It is the law- of our nature that all passive impression shall 
become weaker by repetition, and in process of time be entirely 
effaced. The effect which a beautiful woman produces on a 
man's mind shares the general fate of all involuntary emotions ; 
and the latter can no more prevent the flight of his love than he 
can the departure of his youth, health, strength, or any other 

Tears. — Tears are the dew of the heart, which waters the 
parched feelings, and saves the raiud from withering. 

A Word to Young Wives. — It not unfrequently happens 
that a young married woman is oftener alone than she has pre- 
viously been accustomed to be ; and that she misses the family 
circle with which she has hitherto been surrounded. Let not 
this, however, depress her spirits, or render her too dependent 
on her husbaud for entertainment. Let it least of all lead her 
to seek, too frequently, relief in company. One of the first 
things she should learn is to be happy in solitude ; to find, 
there, occupation for herself; and to prove to her husband tUat, 
however she may enjoy social intercourse, and especiaUy desire 
his presence, she needs not either a sister or a friend to enter- 
tain her when he is away. 

Anomaly. — It is a remarkable anomaly, that those who 
possess the power and disposition to make others happy, are bnt 
too frequently uncomfortable themselves ; while those who are 
a perpetual annoyance whereverthey go, seem to have a "widow's 
cruise" of comfort in their own inordinate self-esteem. 









&c. &c. 6:c. 


LONDON, JULY 1, 1838. 

Vol. XV 









*' 1st. Gent. — God save you, Sir ! Where have you been ? 

2nd. Gent. — Among the crowd i'the Abbey, where a finger 
could not be wedged in more. I am stifled with, the excess of 

1 St. Gent. — Yon saw the ceremony ? 

2nd. Gent.— Thut I did. 

1st. Gent. — How was it ? 

2nd, Gent. — Well worth the Sei:ixg." 

Shakspeark (Henry VIII.) 

The Queen, Victoria, the sovereign lady of the affections of a 
great and united people, now wears the crown of her ancestors. 
The ceremony occurred on Thursday, the 28th of June in the 
Abbey Church of Westminster, and never was there beheld at 
the coronation of any European sovereign a spectacle of so 
much interest as that which was presented to the eyes of the 
spectators when the cro\vn was placed upon Q.ueen Victoria's 
head. There sat the young and lovely sovereign, like a fairy 
Queen enthroned, 

" opposing fredy 

The beauty of her person to the people," 
while all the rank and wejdth, all the wisdom, virtue, and 
beauty of this great empire, surrounded the " angel Queen," 
doing homage not vAih. their lips merely, but with their hearts. 
It was a glad day for England when Queen Victoria went forth 
from her palace to the coronation, and thousands and tens of 
thousands of her delighted and affectionate subjects thronged 
the streets along which the procession passed ; at an early hour 
all London seemed to be eilive, and long before the time appointed 
for the procession to move, the platforms and balconies in the 
line were crowded with persons, among whom numbers of beau- 
tiful and richly-dressed ladies were conspicuous, exacting the 
silent homage of all beholders. At ten o'clock, the procession 
left the paleice and proceeded up Constitution HiU, from the top 
of which Her Majesty was able to observe the preparations for 
the fair which \s-as to be held in Hyde Paik, and on the return 

Vol. XV. 

of the procession, a view of that scene of rude gaiety and mirth 
in full action, was commanded from the same spot. The pro- 
cession passed along Piccadilly, whilst the liveliest demonstra- 
tions of affection fell upon Her Majesty's ears. The merry 
pealiug of the bells, and the shouts of the rejoicing people were 
exhilirating and truly delightful ; and Her Majesty must have 
felt assured of the security of her empire over her subjects' 
hearts. From Rccadilly the procession passed into St. James's 
Street and Pall Mall, the balconies of the club-houses, &c., 
being thronged with elegantly dressed ladies, and others, cheering 
and waving their handkerchiefs. The procession then moved 
along Parliament Street to the Abbey, the approaches to which 
were lined with coverded platforms, almost every seat in which 
was occupied. We were struck with the extreme splendour 
and magnificence of the arrangements at the Abbey, as com- 
pared with those which were made for the coronations of George 
IV. and William IV. and Queen Adelaide ; and, without mean- 
ing to detract from the appropriateness of the former, we are 
bound to state that those on the present occasion were incom- 
parably superior. 

The Peers and Peeresses, in their robes of estate, and others, 
summoned by her Majesty'^s command to witness the ceremony 
of the coronation, were conducted to the places assigned to them 
in Westminster Abbey previously to the arrival of her Majesty ; 
the Lords Spiritual on the north side of the area or sacrarium ; 
the Lords Temporal in the south transept ; and the Peeresses in 
the north transept. The great Officers of State, the Arch- 
bishops of Canterbury and York, the Noblemen appointed to 
carry the Regalia, all in their robes of estate, and the Bishops 
who were to support Her Majesty, as well as those who were 
to carry the Bible, the Chalice, and the Patina, were assembled 
in the Jerusalem Chamber, adjoining the Deanery, before the 
arrival of Her Majesty. 

Arrival at the Abbey. — On the arrival of the procession 
at the west entrance to the Abbey Her Majesty was received by 
the great Officers of State, the Noblemen bearing the Regalia, 
and the Bishops carrying the Patina, the Chalice, and the Bible, 
when Her Majesty repaired to her robing-chamber, constructed 
on the right of the platform without the entrance. In front of the 




grand western entrance to the Abbey, a beautiful Gothic edifice I 
was erected, the style of architecture being perfectly in accor- 
dance with the antiquity of the Abbey itself, the characteristic 
ornaments of which had been studiously observed. The illusion 
was so complete, although the materials were comparatively 
frail, that a casual observer would have imagined this modern 
addition had its date with the Abbey itself. On entering the 
porch of this edifice the same Gothic character was foxmd to be 
beautifully preserved ; and the groined roof and doors and panels 
on each side preserved the illusion in a manner most creditable 
to the artists engaged ; while the long vista leading to the naive, 
with its pillars and other appropriate accompaniments, through 
which the procession passed, was not less remarkable for its 
strict adherence to the ancient model. On the right and left of 
the porch were the reception-rooms of Her Majesty and the 
members of the Royal Family. These chambers were entered 
through oaken doors, beautifully carved ; that on the right was 
set apart for Her Majesty, and was entered through an anti- 
chamber, in which her attendants remained. The walls of Her 
Majesty's chamber were covered with crimson paper, with 
Gothic panels and cornices, and lighted by two windows, in imita- 
tion of lattice, with ground glass, which, while it admitted light, 
shut out the view of exterior objects. From this chamber a 
Gothic-arched door lead to a retiring room. The furniture of 
this room was all of oak, beautifully carved and gilt ; and the 
hangings, carpets, and other fitments, all preserved the same 
appearane« of antiquity. The chamber on the other side, for 
the reception of the Royal Family, was of the same size and 
character, but of a plainer description, the walls being of 
■wainscot, and the furniture less gorgeous. Her Majesty, hav- 
ing been robed, then advanced up the nave into the choir ; the 
choristers in the orchestra singing the anthem, " I was glad 
when they said unto me, we will go into the house of the Lord." 


The Prebendaries and Dean of Westminster. 
Officers of Arms. 

Treasurer of Her Majesty's 
Household (attended by two 
gentlemen) , bearing the crim- 
son bag with the medals. 

Comptroller of Her Majesty's 

Her Majesty's Vice Chamber- 
lain, acting for the Lord 

Chamberlain of Her Majesty's 
Household, attended by an 
Officer of the Jewel Office, 

bearing on a cushion the Ruby 
Ring and the Sword for the 

The Lord Privy Seal ; his 
Coronet carried by a Page. 

The Lord Steward of 

Her Majesty's Household ; 

his Coronet carried by a Page. 


Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Cambridge, 

in a Robe of Estate of Purple Velvet, and wearing a Circlet of 

gold on her head. 

Her train borne by Lady Caroline Campbell, assisted by a 

Gentleman of her Household. 

The Coronet of her Royal Highness borne by Viscount Villiers. 

Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent, 

in a Robe of Estate of Purple Velvet, and wearing a Circlet of 

Gold on her head. 

Her train borne by Lady Flora Hastings, assisted by 

a Gentleman of her Household. The Coronet of her Royal 

Highness borne by Viscount Morpeth. 

Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Gloucester, 

in a robe of Estate of Purple Velvet, and wearing a Circlet of 

Gold on her head. 

Her Train borne by Lady Caroline Legge, assisted by 

a Gentleman of her Household. The Coronet of her Royal 

Highness borne by Viscount Emlyn. 


The Golden Spurs, The Sceptre with the 
borne by Cross, borne by the 

Lord Byron ; Duke of Cleveland ; 
his Coronet carried his Coronet carried 
by a Page. by a Page. 

Curtana, The Second Sword, 

borne by the borne by the 

Duke of Devon- Duke of Suther- 

shire ; his land ; his 

coronet carried by coronet carried by 
a Page. a Page. 

Deputy Garter. 
The Lord Willoughby d'Eresby, 
as Lord Great Chamberiain of England ; 

his coronet borne by a Page. 


His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge, in his robes of 

Estate, carrying his baton as Field Marshal ; 
his coronet borne by the Marquis of Granby ; his train borne 

by Major-General Sir William Gomm. 
His Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex, in his robes of 
Estate ; his coronet carried by Viscount Anson ; his 
train borne by the Hon. Edward Gore. 
The High Constable of Ireland The High Constable of Scot- 
Duke of Leinster ; land, Eari of ErroU ; 
The Eari Marshal The Sword of State, The Lord High Con- 
of England, borne by stable of England, 
The Duke of Norfolk Viscount Melbourne ; Duke of Welhngton, 

The Lord President of the 
Council ; his Coronet carried 
by a Page. 
The Lord ChanciUor of Ireland ; 
attended by his Purse-bearer ; his Coronet 
carried by a Page. 
The Lord Archbishop of Armagh, in his Rochet, with liis Cap 

in his hand. 
The Lord Archbishop of York, in his Rochet, with his Cap in 

his hand. 
The Lord High Chancellor ; attended by his Purse-bearer ; his 

Coronet carried by a Page. 

The Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, in his Rochet, with his 

Cap in his hand, attended by two Gentlemen. 

St. Edward's Staff 

borne by the 

Duke of Roxburghe ; 

his Coronet carried 

by a Fag;. 
The Third Sword, 

borne by the 
Marquis of West- 
minister ; his 
coronet carried by 
a Page. 

Black Rod. 

with his Staff ; 

attended by two 


The Sceptre with the 
Dove, borne by the 

Duke of Richmond ; 
his Coronet carried 
by a Page. 

The Patina, 
borne by 

the Bishop of 

his Coronet with his staff&baton, 

carried by a Page. as Field Marshal ; 
attended by two 
St. Edward's Crown. The Orb, 

borne bv the borne by the 

Lord High Steward, Duke of Somerset ; 
Duke of Hamilton ; his Coronet carried 

attended by 

two Pages. 

The Bible, 

borne by 

the Bishop of 


by a Page. 

The Chalice, 
borne by 

the Bishop of 




"1" ^ 0^ in her Royal Robe of Crimson Velvet, 
^ ^ "S furred with Ermine and bordered 

S j3 1:; with Gold Lace ; wearing the Collars 



_ H 

:3 n> 

-• 3 


S^ o 

r»- "1 

JJ- S_ 


J?' "^ 



Lady Adelaide Paget. 

of her Orders ; on her head a 

Circlet of Gold. 
Her Majesty's Train borne by 

Lady Frances Elizabeth 

Lady Anne Wentworth Fitz- 

Lady Mary Augusta Frede- 

rica Grimston. 

Lady Caroline Amelia Gor- 
don Lennox. 
Lady Maiy Alethea Beatrix 

Lady Catherine Lucy Wil- 

helmina Stanhope. 
Lady Louisa Harriet Jeu- 


Assisted by the Lord Chamberlain of the Household (his Coro- 
net borne by a Pa^e,) followed by the Groom of the Robes. 
The Duchess of Sutherland, Mistress of the Robes. 
Marchioness of Lansdowne, First Lady of the Bedchamber. 


Countess of Charlemont. Marchioness of Tavistock. 

Lady Lyttelton. Countess of Mulgrave. 

Lady Portman. Lady Barham. 


Hon. Margaret Dillon. Hon. Harriet Pitt. 

Hon. Miss Cavendish. Hon. Caroline Cocks. 

Hon. Miss Lister. Hon. Matilda Paget. 

Hon. Miss Spring Rice. Hon. Miss Murray. 


Lady Harriet Clive. Lady Caroline Barrington. 

Lady Theresa Digby. Lady Charlotte Copley. 

Hon. Mrs. Brand. Viscountess Forbes. 

Lady Gardiner. Hon. Mrs. Campbell. 

The Gold Stick The Master of 

of the Life Guards the Horse ; 

in Waiting ; his Coronet borne 

his Coronet borne by a Page. by a Page. 

The Captain-General of the Royal Archer Guard of Scotland 

his Coronet borne by a Page. 
The Captain of the Yeomen The Captain of the Band of 

of the Guard ; Gentlemen-at-Arms ; 

his Coronet borne by a Page. his Coronet borne by a Page. 

Keeper of Her Majesty's Privy Purse. 
Ensign of the Yeomen of Lieutenant of 'the Yeomen of 

the Guard. the Guard. 

Clerk of the Cheque 
Exons of the Yeo- to the Yeomen of Exons of the Yeo- 

men of the Guard. the Guard. men of the Guard. 

Twenty Yeomen of the Guard. 
The Naive. — Over the naive a substantial flooring had been 
placed, while, over the side aisles, galleries were erected for the 
accomodation of 1,500 persons. These galleries were fitted up 
with seats, amphitheatrically arranged, covered with crimson 
cloth, the fronts being decorated with crimson drapery and gold 
trimming ; and, still to preserve the illusion and completeness 
of this part of the edifice, canvass screens reached from the 
bottom of the galleries to the floor, which were beautifully 
painted in imitation of masonry. These at the former corona- 

tions were left open, and had a most unfinished and slovenly 
appearance, the whole of this part of the edifice ha\ing been let 
to speculators. Looking forward towards the choir or theatre, 
a splendid Gothic screen, within which is the organ loft and 
musicians' gallery, met the eye, assuming all the appearance of 
solid masonry, and displaying niches in which various figures 
appeared supported by arches and other architectural accom- 
paniments. Under this screen and supporting the music gal- 
lery were a succession of Gothic pillars, which formed a sort of 
vestibule, through which the procession passed. 

The Theatre. — Here the full blaze of the magnificent 
decorations in the interior of the Abbey filled the mind with 
astonishment. In front was the altar with its splendid Gothic 
canopy and gorgeous tracery, before which the principal cere- 
monies took place ; and still nearer was the chair and platform 
on which Her Majesty received the homage of the Peers. Above 
the altar was the gallery for the reception of the members of the 
House of Commons ; and above this again an additional gal- 
lery bad been added, in front of which the arms of her Majesty 
were beautifully emblazoned. On the right and left, at a vast 
altitude, were galleries for the accommodation of those who had 
obtained tickets ; while on each side of the platform were the 
seats of the Peers and Peeresses, with those for their immediate 
friends behind. In the choir were other seats the fronts of 
which were ornamented with gilt perforated Gothic panels, the 
lower part being formed of wainscot panels. Above these, again 
were galleries, the upper ones stretching some distance into the 

The Music Gallery. — Over the entrance to the theatre 
from the naive was a magnificent music gallery, containing at 
the extreme end the organ with its Gothic case of wainscot and 
gold. The organ was new for the occasion. The seats of the mu- 
sicians descended amphitheatrically from the top to the entrance 
of the theatre. The galleries throughout were covered with 
crimson cloth with gold fringe, the panels of wainscot and gold, 
the tout ensemble presenting a scene of gorgeous magnificence. 
The Queen on ascending the theatre passed on the south side of 
her Throne to her Chair of State oa the south-east side of the 
theatre, being the Recognition Chair, after her private devotion 
(kneelingonherfaldstool) Her Majesty tookherseat; theBishops, 
her supporters, standing on each side ; the Noblemen bearing 
the Four Swords on Her Majesty's right hand, the Sword of 
State being nearest to the Royal Person ; the Lord Great Cham- 
berlain and the Lord High Constable on her left ; the other 
Great Oflacers of State, the Noblemen bearing the Regalia, the 
Dean of Westminster, Deputy Garter, and Black Rod, standing 
near the Queen's, chair ; the Bishops bearing the Bible, the 
Chalice, and the Patina, stood near the pulpit, and the Train- 
bearers, the Lord Chamberlain of the Household, and the Groora. 
of the Robes, behind Her Majesty. 

The Recognition. — Upon the conclusion of the Anthem, 
the Archbishop of Canterbury advanced fi-om his station at the 
south-east pillar, and, together with the Lord Chancellor, the 
Lord Great Chamberlain, the Lord High Constable, and the 
Earl Marshal, preceded by Deputy Garter, moved to the east 
side of the theatre where the i^-chbishop made the Recognition, 
thus:—" Sirs, I here present unto you Queen Victoria, the 
undoubted Queen of this realm ; wherefore all you who have 
come this day to do yoiu- homage are you willing to do the 
same ?" he repeated the same at the south, west, and north 
sides of the theatre ; during which time Her Majesty who wa? 
standing up by her chair turned towards the people on the siJe 
at which the Recognition was made, the assemblage replying to 



each demand -witli loud and repeated acclamations of " God 
Save Queen Victoria ;" and, at the last recognition, the 
trumpets sounded and the drums beat. Her Majesty then resumed 
her seat. The Officers of the Wardrobe having spread a rich 
cloth of gold, and laid a cushion on the same for her Majesty 
to kneel on, at the steps of the altar, the Archbishop of Can- 
terbury proceeded to the altar and put on his cope. 

The First Offering.— The Queen, attended by the two 
Bishops, her supporters, and the Dean of Westminster, the 
Great Officers, and the Noblemen bearing the Regalia and the 
Four Swords going before Her Majesty, then passed to the 
altar. Her Majesty, kneeling upon the cushiou, made her first 
offering of a pall or altar cloth of cold. The Treasurer of the 
Household then delivered an ingot of gold, of one pound weight, 
to the Lord Great Chamberlain, who having presented the same 
to the Queen, Her Majesty delivered it to the Archbishop, to be 
by him put into the Oblation Basin. Her Majesty continuing 
to kneel, the prayer " O God, who dwellest in the high and holy 
place," &c., was said by the Archbishop. At the conclusion of 
the prayer her Majesty rose and went attended as before to the 
Chair of State on the south side of the area. 

The Litany was then read by the Bishops of Worcester and 
St. David's kneeling at a faldstool above the steps of the theatre, 
in the centre of the east side thereof, the choir reading the 

The Communion Service. — The choir having sung the 
Sanctus — "Holy! Holy! Holy! Lord God of Hosts!" the 
Archbishop begun the service, the Bishop of Rochester reading 
the Epistle, and the Bishop of Carlisle the Gospel. 

The Sermon was then preached by the Bishop of London. 
During the sermon her Majesty continued to sit in her chair on 
the south side of the area, opposite the pulpit, supported on her 
right hand by the Bishop of Durham, and beyond him, on the 
same side, were the Noblemen carrying the swords ; on her left 
the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and near him the Lord Great 

The Oath. — The sermon being concluded (and her Majesty 
having, on Monday, the 20th day of November, 1837, in the 
presence of the two Houses of Parliament, made antl signed the 
declaration), the Archbishop of Canterbury, advancing towards 
the Queen and standing before her, ministered the questions 
prescribed by the service ; which having been answered by her 
Majesty, she arose from her chair, and, attended by her sup- 
porters and the Lord Great Chamberlain — the sword of state 
alone being borne before her Majesty — went to the altar, where, 
kneeling upon the cushion placed on the steps, and laying her 
right hand on the Holy Gospels, tendered to her Majesty by the 
Archbishop, she took the Coronation Oath, kissed the book, 
and to a transcript of the oath set her Royal sign manual, the 
Lord Chamberlain of the Household holding a silver standish 
for that purpose, delivered to him by an officer of the Jewel 
Office. The Queen then returning to her chair, a hymn was 
sung by the choir, the Archbishop reading the first line, "Come, 
Holy Ghost, our souls inspire." 

The Anointing.— Upon the conclusion cf the hymn the 
Archbishop read the prayer preparatory to the anointing, " O 
Lord, Holy Father, who by anointing with oil, didst of old 
make and consecrate Kings, Priests, and Prophets," &c. At 
the conclusion of this prayer tlie choir sung the anthem, 
" Zadok the Priest and Nathan the Prophet," &c. At the 
commencement of the anthem the Queen arose from her chair, 
■went before the altar, and, attended by her supporters and the 
Lord Great Chamberlain, the Sword of State being borne before 

her, was disrobed of her crimson robe by the Mistress of the 
Robes. The Queen then proceeded to and sat down in St. 
Edward's chair, covered with cloth of gold, and with a faldstool 
before it, placed in front of the altar, when her Majesty was 
anointed; four Knights of the Garter, viz., the Duke cf Rut- 
land, the Marquis of Anglesey, the Marquis of Exeter, and the 
Duke of Buccleugh, holding over the Queen's head a rich paU 
or cloth of gold. The anthem being concluded, the Dean of 
Westminster took from the altar the ampulla containing the 
consecrated oil, and, pouring some into the anointing spoon, the 
Archbishop anointed her Majesty on the head and hands, in the 
form of a cross, pronouncing the words, " Be thou anointed," 
&c. The Queen then kneeling at her faldstool, the Archbishop, 
standing on the north side of the altar, pronounced the prayer 
after the anointing ; when her Majesty, arising, resumed her 
seat in St. Edward's chair. 

Other Ceremonies. — After this, the Dean took the spurs 
from the altar, and delivered them to the Lord Great Cham- 
berlain, who, kneeling down, presented them to her Majesty, 
who returned them, to be laid upon the altar. The Viscount 
Melbourne, carrying the sword of state, delivered it to the Lord 
Chamberlain, and, in lieu thereof, received from him another 
sword in a scabbard of purple velvet, which his Lordship re- 
delivered to the Archbishop, who laid it on the altar, and said 
the prayer, " Hear our prayers, O Lord, we beseech thee, and 
so direct and support thy servant. Queen Victoria,'' &c. The 
Archbishop then took the sword from off the altar, and, 
assisted by the Archbishops of York and Armagh, with the 
Bishops of London, Winchester, and other Bishops, delivered 
the sword into the Queen's right hand, saying, " Receive this 
kingly sword," &c. The Queen, rising up, went to the altar, 
where her Majesty offered the sword in the scabbard (delivering 
it to the Archbishop, who placed it on the altar), [and then 
returning to St. Edward's chair, the sword was redeemed for 
one hundred shillings by Viscotmt Melbourne. The Queen then 
standing, her Majesty was invested by the Dean with the im- 
perial mantle, or dalmatic robe of cloth gold, delivered to him 
by the officer of the wardrobe, the Lord Great Chancellor 
fastening the clasps. The Queen sitting down, the Archbishop 
having received the orb from the Dean, delivered it into the 
Queen's right hand, saying, " Receive this imperial robe and 
orb," &c. Her Majesty returned the orb to the Dean, who 
laid it on the altar. The Lord Chamberlain of her Majesty's 
Household then, receiving from the officer of the Jewel Office 
the ruby ring, delivered the same to the Archbishop, who put it 
on the fourth finger of the Queen's right hand, saying, " Receive 
this ring," &c. The Dean then brought from the altar the 
sceptre with the cross and the sceptre with the dove, and 
delivered them to the Archbishop. In the meantime the Duk» 
of Norfolk, as Lord of the Manor of Worksop, had left his 
seat, and, approaching the Queen, kneeling, presented to her 
Majesty a glove for her right hand, embroidered with the arms 
of Howard, which her Majesty put on. The Archaishop then 
delivered the Sceptre with the Cross into her Majesty's right 
hand, saying, " Receive the Royal Sceptre," &c. ; and then the 
Sceptre with the Dove into her left hand, saying, " Receive the 
Rod of Equity," &c. 

The Crowning. — ^The Archbishop standing before the altar, 
and having St. Edward's Crown before him, took the same into 
his hands, and consecrated and blessed it -with the prayer, " O 
God who crownest thy faithful servants with mercy," &c. Then 
the Archbishop came from the altar, assisted by the Archbishops 
of York and Armagh, with the Bishops of London, Winchester, 



and other Bishops, the Dean of Westminster carrying the 
Crown ; the Archbishop took and placed it on lier Majesty's 
head ; when the assemblage with loud and repeated shouts 
cried, " God Save the Queen :" and immediately the Peers 
and Peeresses put on their Coronets, the Bishops their caps, 
and the Kings of Arms their crowns ; the trumpets sounding, 
the drums beating, and the Tower and Park guns firing by 
signal. The acclamation ceasing, the Archbishop pronounced 
the exhortation, " Be strong and of good courage," &c. The 
choir then sung the following anthem, "The Queen shall 
rejoice," &c. The Archbishop having pronounced the benedic- 
tion, the Te Dcum was sung by the choir, at the commencement 
of which the Queen removed to the recognition chair on which 
her Majesty first sat. 

The Inthronization.— Te Deum being ended, the Queen 
ascended the theatre, and was assisted into her Throne by the 
Archbishop, Bishops, and Peers around her Majesty, and, being 
so enthroned, all the great Officers of State, the Noblemen 
bearing the Swords, and the Noblemen who had borne the 
other Regalia, stood around about the steps of the Throne, 
wlien the Archbishop, standing before the Queen, pronounced 
the exhortation, " Stand firm and hold fast," &c. 

The Homage.— The Archbishop then knelt before the Queen, 
and, for himself and the other Lords Spiritual, pronounced the 
words of Homage, they kneeling around him, and saying after 
him. The Archbishop then kissed her Majesty's hand, and the 
rest of the Lords Spiritual did the same, and then retired. The 
Dukes of Sussex and Cambridge (the illustrious uncles of our 
lovely Queen), ascending the steps of the Throne, and taking off 
their coronets, knelt before the Queen ; and the Duke of Sussex 
pronounced the words of homage, the Duke of Cambridge saying 
after him. Their Royal Highnesses then severally touched the 
Crown upon her Majesty's head, and kissed her Majesty's left 
cheek ; they then retired. The Dukes and other Peers there- 
upon performed their homage, the senior of each degree pro- 
nouncing the words of homage, and the rest of the same degree 
saying after him, and each Peer of the same degree, successively, 
touching her Majesty's Crown, and kissing her Majesty's hand, 
and then retiring. During the performance of the homage the 
choir sung the anthem, " This is the day which the Lord hath 
made," &c., and the Treasurer of her Majesty's Household threw 
about the medals of the Coronation. 

The Holy Sacrament.— After the anthem the Bishops 
of Carlisle and Rochester, who had read the Epistle and Gospel, 
received from the altar, by the hands of the Archbishop, the 
patina and the chalice, which they carried into St. Edward's 
Chapel, and brought from thence the bread upon the patina, 
and the wine in the chalice. Her Majesty then delivered the 
sceptres to the Dukes of Norfolk and Richmond, and descending 
from her Throne, attended by her supporters, and assisted by 
the Lord Great Chamberlain, the Sword of State being borne 
before her, went to the altar, and, taking off her Crown, delivered 
it to the Lord Great] Chamberlain to hold. She then knelt 
down, and received the sacrament. 

" She came to the altar : where she kneel'd, and, saint-like. 

Cast her fair eyes to heaven and prayed devoutly." 

The Second Offering, which was a purse of gold, was 
then made. The Queen afterwards received the Crown from the 
Lord Great Chamberlain, and put it on, and repaired to her 
throne, receiving again the sceptre with the cross in her right 
hand, and the sceptre with the dove in her left, being there sup- 
ported and attended as duiing the inthronization. The service 

being concluded, her Majesty, attended by the two Bishops, her 
supporters, the Great Officers of State, the Noblemen bearing 
the four swords before her, and the Noblemen who had carried 
the regalia then lying upon the altar, descended into the area, 
and passed through the door on the south side into St. Edward's 
Chapel, where her Majesty was disrobed of her Royal Imperial 
Mantle or Robe of State, and arrayed in her Royal robe of 
purple velvet, by the Lord Great Chamberlain. Her Majesty 
then proceeded out of the choir, and to the west door of the 
Abbey, the Queen wearing her Crown, and bearing in her right 
hand the sceptre with the cross, and in her left the orb ; 
their Royal Highnesses the Princes and Princesses wearing their 

The procession was again formed, and her Majesty commenced 
her return to Buckingham Palace. Immediately that the Queen 
was observed to emerge from the Abbey, the acclamations of 
the populace rent the air ; and these shouts of joy seemed to 
have a great effect upon her Majesty, who was evidently suffer- 
ing much from the fatigue which she had undergone. 

The Queen's Dresses, &c. — Let us now, describe the 
dresses worn by her Majesty upon this important occasion. The 
Dalmatic Robe, in which her Majesty was crowned, is nine 
yards in length ; tlie ground or warp is of the most rich gold- 
coloured silk, and the shoot consists of gold and silver twist, 
and rich silks of various shades. The principal surface appears 
to be massive gold, and the figures, which are bold and con- 
siderably raised, are of the most magnificent description. Those 
of the regal crown, the rose, the shamrock, and the thistle, are 
truly beautful. The eagle, the fleur-de-lis, and other foreign 
national emblems, are also very prominent and beautifully 
executed, and do infinite credit to the skill, taste, and judgment 
of the manufacturer. The Queen's under-dress was composed 
of rich white satin of gold brocade. The Duchess of Kent wore 
a similar dress, but of a different pattern. 

The Gold Palls which her Majesty offered at the altar, 
were splendid pieces of workmanship. The first was composed 
of silk, with barred gold ground, and gold brocaded flowers ; 
the second with silver brocade flowers, and both were lined with 
silver plated tabby. 

The Back Piece of the Altar and Pulpit Cloth were 
of purple silk, with gold and silver tissue. 

The Carpet for the Throne was composed of a gold 
barred ground, with rose-coloured silk brocade. 

The Hangings of the Abbey were composed of six hun- 
dred yards of rich purple satin, brocaded with gold-coloured silk 

The Coronation Rejoicings. — It is out of our power to 
do justice to the rejoicings which this glad event gave rise to. 
The mansions of the nobility were scenes of most extensive 
hospitality, and the foreign ambassadors must have been inspired 
with a lively sense of the magnificence of the British Court, and 
the wealth of the British Nobility. Dejeunes a la fourchette 
were given on the morning of the coronation at the clubs, to 
large parties ; and in the evening the dinner parties were 
numerous and brilliant. The illuminations in the metropolis 
were general and splendid. There were several new carriages 
launched in honour of this happy occasion. In consequence of 
the arrival in this country of so many foreigners of high and 
distinguished rank, to attend the coronation, the ladies patron- 
esses of Almack's have determined to give the ensuing balls on 
an especial scale of grandeur not witnessed for many years. The 
grand saloon will be profusely ornamented and decorated. 

The rejoicings still continue, and we understand that numerous 



entertainments are to be given before tlie season closes, at the 
Palace, and in the mansions of the aristocracy. Well may the 
lines of the poet, Shakspeare, be applied to our young and 
beautiful Sovereign, whose coronation has caused such general 

" She shall be 

A pattern to all princes living with her, 
And all that shall succeed. Good grows with her. 
In her days every man shall eat in safety 
Under his own vine what he plants ; and sing 
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours." 



God Save the Queen ! 

The preparations for the ceremony of the Coronation have 
almost wholly engrossed the attention of the Court during the 
month, and although her Majesty has frequently appeared in 
public, yet the coronation was the subject of superior interest, 
and having described that ceremony at such length, we need 
here only state that her Majesty attended the " Eton Montem" 
(the annual display of the Eton scholars), and Ascot Races on 
the two principal days ; and that her Majesty has held two 
levees, and has given another grand ball at Buckingham Palace. 
A splendid dinner has been given to her Majesty by his Royal 
Highness the Duke of Sussex, at Kensington Palace. We re- 
joice to state that our excellent young Q.ueen is in the enjoyment 
of good health, and that although the ceremonies of the corona- 
tion fatigued her much, she is now perfectly recovered, and again 
mingling, with her accustomed easy dignity and grace, with her 
loyal and affectionate subjects. 

The Queen Dowager is also in good health. 

The Queen's Singing Lessons. — Among all the occupa- 
tions' of the morning the Queen still finds time to continue taking 
lessons in singing from Signor Lablache, who had the distin- 
guished honour of teaching her Majesty for some time prior to 
the accession. The Queen is also in the habit of performing 
pianoforte duets with such of the young ladies in waiting as are 
musical ; but her Majesty seldom plays alone. 

The Queen Dowager has determined on going to Malta before 
the equinox, for eight months. Madeira was at one time spoken 
of, but the preference is given to Malta. Lord and Lady 
Sheffield, and the Misses Hudson and Hope Johnson, are the 
only persons yet mentioned as about to accompany the Queen 
Dowager, who is very well at present, but fears the winter in 



" The Drama's laws the Drama's patrons give ; 
And they who live to please must please to live." 

HER MAJESTY'S THEATRE.— Ma^t'We di Shahran was 
produced by PerSiani for her benefit, and we think the selec- 
tion a judicious one ; the music being throughout excellently 
adapted to her highly-finished execution. We can scarcely call 

! the Matilde de Shahran an original opera, since Rossini ha» 
rather on the occasion blended some of his most favourite music 
with new, the two forming together a combination of more of 
his favourite airs than are contained in any other of his "operas,, 
and what it loses in compactness from want of originality is 
fully gained in variety ; the music is throughout very light and 
tasty, but very difficult and requires first-rate artistes to give it 
due effect ; some of the concerted music is particularly beauti- 
ful and tested the full powers of the singers. Persiani as 
Matilde acquitted herself admirably, giving her portion of the 
music in the most brilliant and finished manner. Eckerlin 
was the Edoardo, and though an excellent musician, we thought 
for some reason we could not divine she scarcely employed her 
full powers upon the occasion, and was less successful than we 
expected ; she has since pleaded hoarseness. Lablache as 
Isodoro kept the house in constant laughter ; albeit his figure gave 
but an imperfectidea of starvation, this character affords consider- 
able scope for the display of comic powers, and Lablache. 
never allows an opportunity to escape him. Rubini as Cor- 
radino and Tamburini as the Medico were no small support 
towards the success of the evening, and received frequent and- 
deserved applause. 

Taglioni's return to this theatre affords a most convincing 
proof of the Impresario' s desire to meet the wishes of the Sub- 
scribers, and afford them all the talent in his power ; we have 
said once before and repeat it now, that the Subscribers ought 
to give a manager some latitude as to the time he can produce 
the performers, it is not in his power to control the directors 
of the other theatres ; he can but make the engagements, de- 
posit the money required by the artistes, and expect in return a 
fulfilment of their part of the engagement •, if this be broken, it 
is his loss quite as much as the public's, and he ought to have, 
some time allowed him to fill up the void. However, we have 
Taglioni once more as light, as graceful, and as elegant as 
ever ; still the same light-bounding Sylphide, and still the same 
favourite of all ; in person she seems to be rather slighter, and 
yet appears in excellent health and spirits. The new Russian 
Mazurka was in her keeping, an exquisite performance, but it 
requires all her grace and elegance to make it popular, she was 
dressed in the true Russe costume, which was highly picturesque,., 
particularly the head-dress with long flowing ribbons ; the de- 
mand for an encore was unanimous, and was complied with 

Cimarosa's lively opera. The Matrimonio Segreto has been 
produced, with some variations, from the cast of last year ;. 
Persiani has taken Grisi's part, and Mrs. Seguin the one 
played by Mdlle. Assandri, Albertzzi, and the rest retained 
their accustomed characters ; the music of Carolina suits Per- 
siani much better than we had imagined, and she plays it with 
much spirit, as if it were a favourite part ; the trio Ilfaccio un 
inchino, was beautifully sang by Persiani, Albertazzi, and 
Mrs. Seguin, and was repeated by the general wish of the 
house. Rubini's exquisite air. Oh sappi amafa sposa, was never 
better sang ; it is always considered the gem of the piece, and 
fully tests the powers of the singer ; no one, however, ever made 
so much of it as Rubini, and it must be considered as his 
chef d'ceuvre, an encore for this aria is, however, too much, and 
the audiences should at least be merciful. Lablache and 
Tamburini were, as usual, highly diverting ; and the celebrated 
dancing duet was received with mixed bursts of applause and 

The new ballet of Miranda ou le Naufrage is partly founded 
on The Tempest, particularly the opening scenes, and is intended 



entirely For the display of Taglioni ia three different dances ; 
it is beautifully got up, showy in the extreme, and the grouping 
and dances are admirably managed ; the first scene of a tem- 
pest is singularly well managed, conveying an excellent idea of 
the storm. Taglioni is seen to more advantage in this ballet 
than in any other in which she has appeared ; her dances are 
aiovel and very graceful, and her positions particularly beautiful 
and effective ; she was ably assisted by Bellon, Forster, and 
GuERRA, some of the scenes require alteration and curtailment, 
"when it will work admirably. 

The Ellslers are once more with us and right welcome are 
they. Her Majesty's Theatre has now all the talent in Europe, 
and the Director has amply redeemed his pledges to the Subscri- 
"bers and the public. 

Fanny Ellsler's Cachuca is the masterpiece of Cachucas ; 
it is essentially different to all others, and yet far more beauti- 
ful, as the original it stands alone and all others must yield it 
precedence ; the sensation it created in Paris was immense, 
but we have no doubt it will gain greater popularity here, and 
always form one of the great sources of attraction, since it will 
bear very frequent repetition, with the charming halM of Fra 
Diavolo to display her talents ; what more can be desired ? 

Taglioni in the Mazourka. — It is amusing to find in 
«very profession that when science is carried to its highest point 
of perfection, invention becomes taxed to bestow something liiie 
originality to its further progress. Taglioni has advanced the 
"ballet far beyond what even the most successful of her prede- 
cessors was able to accomplish ; and now, because she can 
snatch no other grace from art, she turns short in her career, 
and tries to extract beauty from deformity. Who could have 
"believed that the Sijlphide would have condescended to win ap- 
plause by poking in her toes, by rocking her head from side to 
side, by kicking